


keep your heart strong

by drunkonwriting



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Dwarf Courting, M/M, courting fic, smaug never attacks erebor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-03-15 19:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3458510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunkonwriting/pseuds/drunkonwriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a universe where Smaug was shot down before he could ever reach Erebor, Thain Isengrim Took receives a request from King Thrain to help them regrow the lands around the Mountain that were devastated by dragonfire. With his own agenda in mind, Isengrim agrees to travel to Erebor and brings a group of young hobbits with him--among them Bilbo Baggins.</p><p>Thorin didn't think he'd ever want to find love or marriage - all he wanted was protect his family, fight gloriously, and be a better king than his grandfather had been. However, that all changes when the Shire ambassadors blow into Erebor, bringing with them a hobbit who, within days of knowing each other, infuriates and intrigues Thorin more than anyone else he's ever known.</p><p>A slowburn courting fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> i just really wanted to write courting!fic and then all of the sudden plot happened and i ended up changing a lot of canon stuff. 
> 
> THINGS THAT HAVE CHANGED (please read)  
> -smaug attacks like… 200 years later because otherwise thorin would be WAY too young for this fic to happen. and smaug doesn’t make it to erebor—he’s shot down on the way by (you guessed it) bard. thror dies before smaug attacks, so thrain is king.  
> -the greenwood is not under shadow (so it is not mirkwood) - let’s pretend radagast was successful in keeping it out.  
> -the old forest (on the edge of the shire) is under shadow instead (this will be explained and be relevant later on, just keep it in mind).  
> -the thain position in the shire is not necessarily hereditary (e.g. that it can be given to someone by the current thain instead of being passed down from father to son) which is why bilbo is an heir  
> -ages have been altered (see end notes) which means that characters who probably shouldn’t be around at this time will be (specifically, primula brandybuck & fili/kili/ori).
> 
> most of these changes were to help along the plot, so trust me when i say i'm fully aware whenever i diverge from canon. if you want a canon-compliant story you might want... to look else, for this won't be! i'm playing around with basically everything and re-shaping it to my whims, you have been warned. some things and characterizations may not make sense right now - but they will as the story continues, trust me! feel free to leave any questions in the comments.
> 
> AGES
> 
>  **hobbits** (age of majority: 33)  
>  bilbo: 35  
> adalgrim took (bilbo’s cousin on his mother’s side): 45  
> primula brandybuck (frodo’s canon mother): 34  
> esme took (oc, bilbo’s cousin on his mother’s side, adalgrim’s younger sister): 33  
> hamfast gamgee (sam’s father): 54  
> isengrim took (thain, bilbo/adalgrim/esme’s uncle, belladonna’s brother): 71
> 
>  **dwarves** (age of majority: 70)  
>  thorin: 120  
> thrain: 245  
> dis & frerin: 98, 73  
> balin & dwalin: 123, 118  
> bofur, bombur: 102, 99  
> dori, nori: 112, 110  
> fili, kili, ori: 14, 12, 11
> 
> i'll try and update weekly/bi-weekly but i have school and work and other fics, so we'll see how it goes. thanks for reading!!!!

Bilbo’s read about the Lonely Mountain in history texts and story books, and he’s seen all the maps. But nothing can compare to the actuality of the stern peak rising on the horizon, clouded by mist. They’ve been able to see it for days, of course, but their approach to Dale on a long barge has brought them even closer still, until the mountain seems to take up half the sky. 

“Do the dwarves really live _there_?” Adalgrim says, almost aghast.

Bilbo rolls his eyes. “Of course they do, Grim.”

“But it’s so _bare_. And so _big_. Bag End isn’t so big! Even _Brandy Hall_ isn’t so big!”

Bag End is easily one of the largest smials in the Shire, and Brandy Hall one of the biggest halls, but even combined they would probably only be—well, a room, maybe, in Erebor. Bilbo can’t really imagine living there either, if he’s honest; how does anyone live away from sunshine and fresh air? But his books say that Aulë crafted the dwarves from rock in the same way that hobbits were grown from fresh earth, so perhaps to the dwarves it is as comfortable as the land of the Shire. 

“It’s a lovely place, I think,” Gandalf says behind them. “The inside is much more comfortable than the outside might seem—much of the greenery of the land was destroyed when Smaug came.”

Bilbo frowns as he looks back at the wizard. “It’s been over a year since Smaug. The land hasn’t recovered?”

“Dragonfire is no small thing, Master Baggins,” Gandalf says, regarding him seriously from underneath the wide brim of his gray hat. “It ravages the land. It requires a deft touch to grow things on it again, a touch that dwarrows are not blessed with.”

“That’s why they need us,” Bilbo mutters and Gandalf gives him a stern look.

“As much as you need them, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo frowns up at the mountain, for he can’t argue that point. They’ve come all this way, after all, even though when the first summons from Erebor had come, all those months ago, Uncle Isengrim had been hesitant to leave. Not for the reasons many Hobbits would have balked—the missive was brought by Gandalf, who any Hobbit could tell you was trouble, and it asked for Hobbits to _leave the Shire_ , a dire enough thing in its own right, but also to travel halfway across Arda!—but because the invitation came from dwarves, who Isengrim had been told were a tight-fisted, greedy folk. Bilbo isn’t so sure—after all, what race can say that they aren’t greedy in some way?—but Isengrim brooded over the matter for weeks before coming to a decision.

Really, there had been no choice. They needed the help as much as Erebor did, and Erebor happened to be in a perfect position to give them the aide they really desired. When it came down to it, they were always going to have to go.

Isengrim wasn’t a young hobbit anymore, but he was a Took and that meant adventuring never left his spirit—he decided to lead the party, leaving his younger brother in charge (though everyone agreed that it was mostly honorary, as the Thain, aside from this very venture, usually had little actual duties in the Shire). To bring luck to their venture, he decided on a party of six (including their wizard accompaniment) and brought with him a representative from each part of the Shire—Adalgrim and Esme, to represent Tuckborough; Primula to represent Buckland; and Hamfast and Bilbo to represent Hobbiton. 

Bilbo had never dreamed about accepting, the first time Isengrim had asked, so many months ago. It wasn’t until his mother passed near the end of the summer that he changed his mind—Belladonna Took would’ve been delighted by the thought of her son going on such an adventure.

“When do the celebrations start?” Adalgrim asks, drawing Bilbo out of his thoughts. 

They’ve arrived just before the dwarves celebrate Durin’s Day—Gandalf had informed them that it marks the beginning of a month-long celebration which includes all sorts of balls. Apparently it also the time that many dwarves begin their long process of courtship, whose rules and regulations the hobbits couldn’t quite understand.

“In two weeks, Master Took,” Gandalf answers. “We are indeed lucky to have come at such a time—it is one of the only times of the year that the dwarrows have as much good fun as any hobbit.”

“We mustn’t forget our purpose, though,” Primula pipes up, glaring up at Gandalf. “We’re here for alliance, Gandalf!”

“Of course, my dear,” Gandalf says, looking amused. “But—and I never thought I’d need to remind a hobbit of this—a bit of good fun never hurt anyone!”

“Of course not,” Isengrim calls from his position at the back of their little boat. He looks a little green around the edges, but water travel hasn’t really agreed with anyone except Primula. “But if we wanted a good party, we would’ve just stayed put in the Shire, Gandalf!”

“And probably had a right better party to boot!” Hamfast says, then groans and sticks his head out over the water to be sick again.

“Indeed! In any case, we must remember our purpose in coming,” Isengrim says and then, to Gandalf’s visible bemusement, begins sketching out their strategy. “Adalgrim, charm them the royal heirs as best you can. I doubt we can expect a marriage, but perhaps something will come of it.”

“The Princess is married already, remember?” Adalgrim says. 

“Well, the Princes aren’t!” Isengrim says, nodding. “Doesn’t Princess Dís have children? You really are quite good with children, Adalgrim, perhaps you can make friends with them.” He turns to the rest of them. “Primula, Esme, you can try with the Princes as well if you’d like—who knows how their tastes run. But I want Primula to mingle with their common folk, for she’s twice as charming as any of you and can see how the wind lies in Erebor.”

“Uncle!” Adalgrim protests. “I’m much more charming than Prim!”

“Charm isn’t the same thing as saying something rude to people and smiling to dazzle them out of their outrage!” Esme says, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, cousin! People like Prim!”

Primula’s blushing now so Bilbo adds, “And she’s got a much better smile anyhow.”

Adalgrim gapes at him in outrage while Primula grins, dimpling her cheeks. 

“Now, now, you’re both lovely,” Isengrim says, though Bilbo notes that he’s trying not to smile. “Bilbo, I want you with me, negotiating our terms.”

Bilbo frowns. “Me? Not—well, Gandalf?”

“Master Gandalf is not a hobbit,” Isengrim says firmly. Gandalf huffs, but doesn’t argue. “He will not negotiate on our behalf. No, out of all us—myself included, I might add—you have the best sense for this sort of thing, Bilbo; why, look at how you handled King Thranduil!”

Bilbo grimaces. He’d much rather _not_ think about Thranduil if he can help it.

“Alright,” he says. “But I may need Hamfast in there with me for details and such.”

Hamfast has recovered enough from his sea sickness to gape at him. “Me, Master Bilbo? But—we’ll be talking to the king himself, won’t we?”

“Yes, I suppose,” Bilbo says, nonplussed. “But—“

“Oh no, I _couldn’t_!”

“Perhaps Hamfast can just relay the details to you in private, Bilbo,” Isengrim says. “I would prefer him to spend his days outside, anyhow, getting an idea of how much work needs to be done on the land. It’s too late to begin a growing season, but we’ll spend the winter buying supplies and preparing for spring. Perhaps we may even be able to grow some winter vegetables in the mountain itself!”

Hamfast looks up at the spire of rock dubiously. “In there, Master Isengrim? I don’t know about that.”

“Think of it as a challenge to your skill, Master Gamgee,” Isengrim says. 

Hamfast’s eyes get a glint at that and he looks at the mountain with more consideration. 

“I will be with Bilbo in the talks,” Isengrim says. “Esme, I would like you to fact-check everything we discuss—I want to make sure these dwarves don’t try to cheat us and you’re the best at sneaking about, after all.”

“Except Bilbo,” Esme says.

Bilbo rolls his eyes. “You’re much quieter than I am,” he says. “Who snuck up on the trolls?”

“Who snuck up on the orcs?” Esme counters, then sticks out her tongue. “I’ll take a look around, Uncle,” she says to Isengrim. “I want to see their mines for myself, anyway! I heard that dwarves can hear the precious stones calling to them! Is that true, Gandalf?”

Gandalf chuckles. “Dwarves do have what they call a ‘stone sense’ but I’m not sure it’s strong enough for them to hear gems speaking, Mistress Took!” He directs a look at Isengrim. “Do you have any task for me, O Thain?” 

“Don’t mess everything up with all your wizard business,” Isengrim says firmly. “You’ve already gotten us into enough trouble with it already!”

Gandalf sputters as all the hobbits laugh. 

“Well—I never! Hobbits!”

* * *

Thorin stands at his father’s right hand, waiting for the delegation from the Shire to arrive—they sent word this morning that they would be upon Erebor by the afternoon, but it’s already a half-hour past their arrival time. Thorin shifts uncomfortably and shares a look with Dís, who stands at his elbow, but Thráin doesn’t move.

The horns blare outside and Thorin bites back a thanks to Mahal; the hobbits have finally reached the gates and it is only a short walk to the throne room from there—with any luck, they will be finished within the hour. The doors open and a small group makes its way inside; five short figures with the taller Gandalf following behind. 

Thorin narrows his eyes as the group approaches and takes them all in. He’s spent more time out of Erebor than other dwarves, so he can usually tell the genders of other races easily enough. Two womenfolk and three men, as far as he can tell, all of them much shorter than a dwarf and beardless. Oddly enough, they walk barefooted, the tops of their feet heavily furred.

“Hail Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain,” Gandalf says. “I come with the promised ambassador from the Shire, the current Thain Isengrim Took, and his companions.”

“Hail Gandalf the Grey,” Father says. “Hail Thain Took from the Shire. May I ask the names of your companions?”

The Thain bows. He is a pudgy man with wintery hair and a kind, open face—but his eyes are dark, clever. 

“Hail, King Under the Mountain,” he says. “We are glad to be here, for our road was long and hard. With me are representatives from the Shire, here to help us in our negotiations and to see a bit of the world for themselves. The two lasses are Primula Brandybuck, a daughter of our river clans, and Esme Took, my youngest niece. Hamfast Gamgee is our best gardener and the other two lads are my nephews and heirs—Adalgrim Took and Bilbo Baggins. All of us are at your service.” He sweeps into a deep bow.

“Well met, young hobbits,” Father says. “My heirs stand with me as well, Thain Isengrim. My eldest, Thorin, named Oakenshield and my youngest, Dís, named Orcsbane. My third child, Frerin, currently lives in Greenwood as ambassador to the wood elves. Perhaps you met him there?”

The Thain frowns. Not an unusual reaction to Thranduil and his kingdom, but Thorin raises an eyebrow and exchanges another look with Dís. She smirks at him.

“We did not stay long in Greenwood,” the Thain says. “Though our path through the forest was easy, our host was . . . most anxious for us to be gone. We were only in the halls of King Thranduil for a week before we made our way to Dale.”

“So quick!” Thráin says and Thorin wonders how he's able to hide his judgement and distaste for Thranduil so easily. “Well, Thranduil is not known for his courtesy toward guests, that much is certain! Hopefully you will not find cause to leave our halls so quickly, Master Hobbit.”

Isengrim inclines his head. “We both hope for that, Master Dwarf.”

Thorin sighs and wonders how much longer this will go on. Thráin must hear him, for he shoots Thorin a tiny look over his shoulder that’s both amused and stern.

“If you and your kin wish, we have rooms prepared,” Thráin says and they all notice how the hobbits brighten as a group. “Thain Isengrim, I would speak with you after dinner in order to iron out the details of the negotiation between our people.”

The Thain bows again. “That would be most welcome, Your Majesty. My kin and I would be happy for the respite—the travels have been long and fierce.”

They part with more pleasantries and the hobbits are lead out by one of the attendants. Gandalf, however, stays behind.

“They are a strange little folk,” Thráin says, relaxing on his throne a little. “They come all the way over the Misty Mountains, you said?” he asks Gandalf. “Near Ered Luin?"

“We have traveled far,” Gandalf says, leaning against his long staff. “Hobbits are a hardy sort, but they not used to such long distances. All of them have never been more than a few miles out of Shire territory, even Isengrim.”

“Remarkable,” Thráin says, eyebrows lifting. “And your journey, Tharkûn? Was it as bad as the Thain said, or does he speak as one unaccustomed to travel?”

Gandalf sighs, a wearier sound than Thorin has ever heard from him. “It was indeed a very hard journey. We were set upon by orcs several times—and of course, there were the trolls near Rivendell and a whole host of goblins under the Misty Mountains!”

Thorin stares. He had been expecting—well, something about the distance traveled, perhaps, or maybe the halflings complaining about not having enough food or good enough blankets. They seemed like the type of folk to complain about such things. Dís looks equally as startled when he glances at her, though Thráin seems to take it in stride.

“It was good you were with them, Tharkûn,” Thráin says, troubled. “That is quite a lot of trouble for five halflings to manage, but even worse if they had no wizard to guard them.”

Gandalf surprises them all by chuckling. “Oh, you’d be surprised, old friend,” he says. “I did not do the lion’s share of rescuing. Miss Took led us out of the goblin king’s lair in the mountains and Master Baggins got us out of the scrape with the trolls—indeed, he helped defended our party most ably against the orcs as well!”

“Against _orcs_?” Thorin says, aghast, and finds himself the recipient of a cool blue stare. He tries not to let it show how it unnerves him.

“Hobbits are surprising creatures, Prince Thorin,” Gandalf says. “You will learn much with them here, of that I am certain.” He turns back to Thráin. “I will meet with you after dinner as well, King Under the Mountain. We have much to discuss.”

Thráin waves him off and they are finally allowed to leave the throne room, though Thorin hardly notices. One of those tiny creatures fighting _orcs_ —? It is unimaginable. Perhaps Gandalf was mistaken or trying to earn their favor for his friends. Thorin decides he will find out the truth at dinner, if he can. 

* * *

The hobbits are guests of honor and they get seats at the royal table for their welcome feast that night. Thorin, as ever, sits at Thráin's right hand, but instead of Dís at his left elbow, he has a hobbit. He hadn't paid close attention when they were introduced, but he thinks this one is one of the heirs—he has a thatch of honeyed curls and clever, dark eyes. He darts a look at Thorin when he sits down and the tips of his oddly curved ears flush red—the sight is so distracting that Thorin doesn't think to offer greeting until the hobbit has already taken his seat and turned to his companion on the other side, a dark-haired hobbit lass. 

Thorin stares at the back of the hobbit's head until Thráin stands, then turns to face his father.

"Tonight, we honor guests who have traveled far to be with us," Thráin says, lifting his tankard. "Our friends from the Shire come to give us aid over mountain and valley and through dangers untold—may gold ever fill their cups!"

The blessing is roared back at them from every table in both Westron and Khuzdul; all of the hobbits look flummoxed at the attention, even the one seated next to Thorin. When the noise dies down, Thráin drains his tankard in one, solid gulp and the rest of the room follows suit—Thorin included. He notices that none of the hobbits touch their tankards, but decides not to take offense—as the ones being honored, they have no obligation to join in. 

Once Thráin takes his seat again, noise refills the hall as dwarves collect their food and begin to eat. Thráin begins an easy conversation with Isengrim, who sits on his other side, and Thorin wonders if he should do the same with his own hobbit as he loads his plate with offerings from the bowls in front of them. He eyes the hobbit out of the corner of his eye, but to his consternation, he has already filled his plate high and is making a determined effort to stuff his face. 

It's entertaining, if nothing else.

Thorin eats quietly and quickly as ever, but the hobbit is done well before him, and cleans his plate so thoroughly that there's probably no need to send it down to the dishwashers in the kitchens. Thorin takes another sip of his newly filled tankard and casts about for something, _anything_ to say. He's the crown prince, but he's never been particularly good at small talk, even diplomatic small talk. Out of all of them, including their father, Frerin's the only one who's ever been good at diplomacy. There's a reason he's the one staying with the wood elves.

"Do your rooms meet your liking?" he asks finally, with a touch of desperation.

The hobbit turns to him with such surprise that Thorin's almost affronted. Did he think Thorin would ignore him all night?

"Yes, yes, of course," the hobbit says. "I'm so sorry—you're Prince Thorin, aren't you?" He offers a hand. "Bilbo Baggins."

Thorin stares at his hand, then back at his face. Does he not know how rude it is to offer your hand to a dwarf? The men of Dale have never tried, so surely the hobbits must know as well. The longer that Thorin doesn't move, the redder Bilbo gets until he finally drops the offending hand back into his lap.

"Ah—"

"Did you really fight orcs on your way here?" Thorin asks. 

"Well, yes," Bilbo says, obviously nonplussed. "On our way out of the Misty Mountains, we were accosted by an orc pack."

Thorin eyes him. This is the hobbit that Gandalf spoke of specifically—the one who supposedly tricked trolls and fought orcs. But he looks smaller and softer than most green dwarflings, barely able to look at a weapon, let alone use one to kill orcs, so Thorin rather doubts it. 

"Gandalf says you fought them off," he says as a test.

Bilbo flushes. "Ah, well—"

Thorin snorts. Just so. "I thought as much."

Bilbo abruptly goes as tense as a newly-tuned harp string. "You thought what, Prince Thorin?" he asks, voice frosty.

Thorin frowns, not sure what offense he's given. Surely the hobbit must not dream himself an orc-slayer? 

"That Gandalf was joking, of course. Halflings may be good at growing food and flowers, but fighting orcs is beyond you."

He means it as a comforting thing—after all, it means that the hobbits can stay safe from such dangerous creatures, for they can leave the fighting to those who are better-suited. But it isn't until Bilbo's eyes narrow that he realizes that it could be taken quite differently. Thorin glances at his father out of the corner of his eye, but Thráin is thankfully engaged in his conversation with the Thain. The girl on Bilbo's other side, however, has been listening to their conversation avidly. Thorin can feel heat blooming up the back of his neck, but he meets Bilbo's gaze squarely.

Bilbo leans into Thorin's space. "First of all," he says, in a low, dangerous tone utterly at odds with the barefooted tiny creature saying them, "we're _hobbits_ , Prince Thorin. We're not _half_ anything."

Thorin bites the inside of his cheek and curses inside his head. Damned sensitive little— 

"My apologies—" he starts to say, but Bilbo cuts him off.

"Second of all," he continues as if Thorin hasn't spoken, "you're an arrogant, pigheaded numpty if you think that I can't fight orcs just because I don't look like you."

Thorin's jaw drops and he struggles, for a moment, for something to say. Bilbo looks highly satisfied with himself and Thorin forgets that this entire confrontation has come about at his own doing, or that he's meant to be apologizing, or even that the hobbit sitting next to him is an honored guest 

"You may have great talent with your garden hoes, Master Baggins, but you don't have the strength to stand up to orcs," he says. He knows as he's saying it that it's bad, that it's undiplomatic as he can get, that he's going to possibly ruin relations with the Shire. But, for some reason, his mouth _keeps running_. "Your folk trembles to leave their homeland and you expect me to think you courageous?"

"Well, we're both learning about other cultures today, Prince Thorin," Bilbo says. "You're learning how to see past your own narrow-minded prejudices and I'm learning that dwarves can be nasty, rude, rock-headed fools." He stands, shoving his chair back so violently that it makes an ugly screeching sound that attracts the attention of half the room. "If you'll excuse me," he says, loud enough so everyone can hear. "I find I don't feel well this evening." 

He stomps off with a surprising amount of sound for someone who wears no shoes. After giving Thorin a nasty look, the girl who'd been sitting next to him does the same. Thorin stares at their empty seats and tries to ignore the steady sinking sensation in his gut that tells him he royally fucked this all up.

* * *

"—the absolute _nerve_ of that boor-headed, priggish—"

"—can you please calm down—"

"—calls me a halfling, tells me I'm _useless_ —"

"—for Yavanna's sake, Bilbo—"

Bilbo whirls on Esme as she punches his shoulder, startled out of his rant. "What was that for?!" he demands, still furious.

"I'm trying to get you to shut up, you numpty!" Esme snaps. "What were you thinking, storming out of there like that?"

"Didn't you hear what he said to me? About _us_?" Bilbo wants to snarl just thinking about it. "He's lucky I didn't shove Sting right up his princely—"

"Bilbo!" Esme says, snapping her fingers in front of his nose. He frowns at her. "We're here on a mission! You know that! No matter how—" her eyes narrow, "— _boorish_ and _ill-mannered_ some of these dwarves are, we can't afford to risk this alliance and you know it! So you can't go around insulting the _crown prince_ to his face!" 

Bilbo stares at her dark, determined eyes for a moment and then sags, the fight going out of him. "Oh no," he says. "Do you think I've fluffed it up?"

Esme snorts. "You didn't see the Prince's face when you left," she says. "He looked like he'd just seen a ghost about to murder him. I don't think he's going to tell anyone and the King was preoccupied with the Thain to hear anything, so as long as we don't saying anything . . . . We'll just have to make sure you and the Prince aren't anywhere near each other while we're here."

"He's the _crown prince_ ," Bilbo mutters. "He's _always_ going to be around." Which will be just Bilbo's bloody luck.

"We'll figure something out," Esme says, patting his hand. "Now, do you feel better or do we need to go break something?"

Bilbo considers the question. "I _do_ feel better," he admits. "But I'd feel _much_ better if we went and found something to break."

Esme's grin exposes all her teeth. "Well, then, let's go and get you some much-needed therapy, shall we?"

* * *

"—and then I told him he was too _cowardly_ to fight orcs—"

Dís sighs in the way she only ever does whenever Thorin does something spectacularly stupid. 

"So at the dinner to honor his people coming to help us when they didn't need to," she says, "you insulted his honor, his courage, his figure, and his entire people all in one sitting?"

Thorin buries his face in his hands and doesn't say anything, because the only answer he has is _yes_ and he really doesn't want to have to say that. Dís puts a hand on his bowed head and gives him a couple of pats, probably out of pity. 

"Father really should have learned from the last time he sat you with Legolas," she says.

Thorin's head shoots up. "That tree-shagger had it _coming_ ," he snaps.

Thranduil is a pain but Legolas is five times worse—ever since they met, Thorin's disliked him.

Dís rolls her eyes. "That's what I'm talking about," she says. "No sense of tact, no diplomatic intuition, and you always manage to say the rudest thing possible even when you're not trying! You're a diplomat's walking nightmare, brother. We're lucky Master Baggins didn't punch you out."

Thorin scoffs. "He couldn't."

"Oh?" Dís says, with her odd, sly smile. "You really think so? You forget, brother, I was sitting with Gandalf and the Thain while you were off insulting our honored guests. Gandalf says that Bilbo killed _four_ of the orcs who ambushed them all by himself."

Thorin gapes. Four is not an impressive number for a warrior, but for someone like Bilbo Baggins, who looks like he can hardly kill a fly—

"That can't be true," he says, dumbfounded. 

"Gandalf says that Bilbo's been teaching himself the art of the sword," Dís continues. "He's pretty new to it still, but the Thain thinks he shows promise. Perhaps you can get him to spar with you Thorin—of course, that will also give him an opportunity to murder you, so perhaps not . . . ."

"Do you think he'll get the Thain to call of negotiations?" Thorin asks. He dreads what his father will think of this if it comes to his ears.

Dís sighs. "I don't think so," she says. "His people want this as much as us, Mahal knows why. They're not going to risk it either, just because you were being stupid." Her face turns sly. "What did he say to you again? That last bit?"

Thorin repeats it to her, word-for-word because it's been burned onto his brain, and Dís' laugh is delighted. Thorin glares at her, but she's immune.

"I think I like your hobbit, brother," she murmurs. "I hope I get to meet him properly soon."

Thorin makes a face. Bilbo Baggins might have intriguing ears and fine eyes, but he's obviously far too sensitive to slight and can turn Thorin into a bumbling moron with the right words, so Thorin can say with absolute certainty that he'll be quite happy never to see the hobbit again for the rest of his stay here.

* * *

Thráin sighs as he settles into his chair by the fire. Across from him, Thain Isengrim looks poised for flight as he sits gingerly on the edge of his own chair, but Gandalf looks amused as he settles down next to them. There's a long silence as they all look at each other, before Thráin decides that enough is enough.

"I would say that it won't happen again," he says, "but knowing my first-born, it's unlikely." 

Isengrim deflates. "I wish I could say the same for Bilbo," he says mournfully, "but he is not unlike your son, King Thráin."

They exchange the deeply understanding looks of adults who have had to deal with stubborn, foolhardy children for far too long. Gandalf chuckles.

"They will come to terms with one another," he says. "Give it a little time, my friends. They are both young, still, and know little of the world."

"Don't you think it would be wiser to keep them separated?" Isengrim asks, brow furrowing. "Bilbo won't, uh, forget something like that quickly."

"And Thorin will likely hold it against the lad for having the last word," Thráin says. "He's never liked being embarrassed."

Isengrim turns back to with alarm. "Your majesty—"

Thráin waves a hand. "I heard the entire exchange, my friend," he says. "Your nephew only gave back what Thorin foolishly dumped on him. I will, however, have words with my son—"

"Oh no, that's not necessary," Isengrim hastens. "Bilbo's very proud, but it's true that our people are no warriors—"

"My son should honor you regardless of what you are or what you're capable of," Thráin says. He'd thought he'd taught that to Thorin years ago, but it appears his son is due for another lesson. "Warriors are not the only ones who deserve our respect."

"Wise words, O King," Gandalf murmurs, smiling. "But may I offer a suggestion to teaching them to your son in a way he will remember?"

Thráin raises an eyebrow. "What did you have in mind?"

"Tomorrow you planned to open negotiations between yourself and the hobbits," Gandalf says. "I presume you meant to preside over them?"

"Well, yes," Thráin says. "And I assumed Thain Isengrim would take over on his side."

"Yes, yes," Gandalf says, shooting Isengrim an amused look. "But I think it may be wise to let others handle that affair—perhaps your heir could use some hands-on diplomacy work, King Thráin?"

Thráin can see Gandalf's scheme almost immediately. "And I suppose Thain Isengrim would step aside for young Bilbo, is that it?" he asks, raising a brow. "It may not be fair to the lad - Thorin may be . . . tactless, but he's a shrewd bargainer."

Isengrim snorts. "Bilbo can give what he takes, I expect," he says stoutly. "He headed the negotiations with Thranduil when we were in Greenwood, and got everything we wanted and more."

Thráin's eyebrows slide up. Isengrim had mentioned he'd had some business in Greenwood, but not that there had been a formal agreement. Thranduil was no green hand at negotiation—it too many weeks and a hard hand to get him to come around to any of their terms whenever he deigned to ally with Erebor. Figuring out the trade agreement between Greenwood and Erebor had been a bloody nightmare of over half a year. To get all his terms in less than a week . . . . Thráin finds his view of young Master Baggins shifting. Perhaps he'll even teach Thorin a thing or two.

"If you truly think he's ready, I can find no fault with this plan," Thráin says. "It would force them to work together and keep resentment from festering."

Isengrim hums. "I think it's a fine idea," he admits. "Bilbo's sneakier than almost any hobbit alive—if he doesn't want to see Thorin, I daresay they'll never meet again during our trip and we'll leave with them still at odds. This way he can't wriggle out of confrontation as he always does." Isengrim grins. 'Besides, I am always happy with a plan that leaves less of the dirty work for me."

Thráin laughs. "Just so, my friend." He turns to Gandalf. "I trust you'll oversee this and make sure they don't come to blows? You are a neutral party, after all. Thain Isengrim, if you'd like to appoint an overseer on your side—"

"I trust Bilbo implicitly, King Thráin," Isengrim says. "He knows exactly what we need and what we can do."

"Very well. Shall we let them know now?"

Isengrim smiles. If Thráin was a hobbit, he would've known it was a very _Tookish_ sort of smile. 

"No, let's keep it a surprise, shall we?"


	2. Thieves and Negotiations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your lovely comments and kudos! i'm glad people have enjoyed what i've written so far! next chapter should be up next week sometime.

When Gandalf and the elves told him stories about Erebor, none of them mentioned it being a bloody _maze_.

Bilbo turns another corner and curses under his breath when he ends up in a hall that looks exactly like the one he left, with no idea on how to get back to the suite of rooms the King gave him and his family. He'd left them earlier in the morning, slipping easily past the guard stationed on hall outside, determined to explore before their duties set in and he would be confined to one place. The others were going to get to have _all_ the fun, really. Bilbo was going to be in a stuffy little room, discussing the subtleties of a truly dull treaty. Esme and Primula and Grim all were going to get to explore the mountain and Hamfast, the lucky hobbit, was going to spend most of his days _outside_. It's only been a day, but Bilbo already misses the outdoors.

He turns another corner and sighs. More tapestries, more glittering jewels, and he still has no idea where he is. He's yet to see a dwarf, even the guards! He's not quite sure what he would say to them, since he's off wandering alone—they might find that kind of thing suspicious—but at least they might be able to bring him back to his room! 

He pauses at a tapestry near the end of the hall, which depicts the scene of Smaug the Terrible destroying the city of Dale. The dragon is stitched in dark red thread, with glittering rubies threaded throughout, its terrible, dark maw spewing orange-red flames. Bilbo shivers a little at the sight of it; despite the ravaged lands outside, it's hard to truly imagine such a ferocious terror descending on this place. Erebor's lucky that Bard the Dragonslayer had good aim and a lot of luck.

His attention is drawn away from the tapestry when he hears someone crying up ahead. Bilbo frowns. He recognizes that kind of crying from faunts back home; the high-pitched, hiccuping sobs of a child who's lost sight of their parents. He hurries forward and nearly crashes in to the tiny dwarfling sitting on the floor.

Bilbo squats down as the dwarfling hiccups and rubs at his eyes. He is a wee lad indeed, probably not even near the tweens yet. He is covered, from head to toe, in knitted things, including a cap on his head that is far too big. It keeps sliding down into his eyes. He looks up at Bilbo and says something in the dwarven language. Bilbo's a deft hand at languages, but the dwarves don't let any outsider study Khuzdul, so Bilbo has no idea what he's saying.

"I'm sorry," he says, careful to keep his voice steady and soothing. "I don't speak Khuzdul. Do you speak Westron?"

The dwarf hiccups again. "Who're—who're _you_?" he asks, in accented but passable Westron. 

Bilbo smiles at him. "Bilbo Baggins," he says. He learned his lesson from last night and does _not_ extend a hand. Instead, he bows his head. "At your service!"

"Oh!" the dwarf says, blushing. "O-Ori, at yours!" Big blue eyes peer up at him, their panic gone in the face of curiosity. "Are you one of the halflings?"

Bilbo doesn't bristle because unlike Thorin, this lad's barely older than some of his nieces and nephews back home and Bilbo doesn't hold with shouting at children. 

"Hobbits," he corrects gently instead, and hopes the lesson will stick. "Yes, Master Ori, I am. Are you lost?"

"I've never met a hobbit before," Ori mutters, more to himself than to Bilbo. "They're not mentioned in any books . . . . Oh! I'm not lost," he says. "But I can't—I can't find my brother." His mouth starts to look a little wobbly again, eyes filling. "He was supposed to come back!"

Bilbo frowns. "Your brother?" he asks. "He left you here?"

"No, by the market," Ori says. "He said, _stay put and don't move I'll be right back_! But he took so _long_ , Master Baggins and I saw a mountain butterfly and—"

Children are children no matter where one goes, apparently. Bilbo sighs and wonders what he should do now. He has no idea where the market is or what this dwarf's brother looks like. As he considers the hall, he hears the sound of some sort of commotion nearby, a lot of shouting and pounding feet. Bilbo frowns and looks down at Ori. The little lad stands up, looking much happier for some reason.

"That's probably Nori," Ori says to Bilbo in a confiding sort of way. "Dori says he's _trouble_."

Bilbo feels a sort of impeding doom, but it's too late—a dwarf is already rounding the corner at a dead run. He's dressed in the same sort of plain clothes as Ori, but his hair is a hundred times more intricate, braided in a truly odd tri-pointed fashion. He comes to a skidding halt when he sees Ori and Bilbo, but he's quick on his feet—before Bilbo can so much as say hello, he's already darted behind Bilbo's back, using him as a living shield. 

"If anyone asks, I've been here with you _the whole time_ ," the dwarf, who can only be Nori, whispers urgently into Bilbo's ear even as he hunches down further. 

Bilbo opens his mouth, indignant—

—and a terribly _large_ group of heavily armed dwarves come around stomping around the corner, led by a dwarf so wide and fearsomely muscled that Bilbo feels a bit faint. They all have weirdly intricate hairstyles too, especially the leader—do dwarves compete to see who can be the most outlandish hair? 

The leader stomps up to Bilbo and stops, taking him in from head to toe. Bilbo does his best not to tremble. 

"You're one of the hobbits," the dwarf rumbles. 

"Y-yes," Bilbo says, straightening up. _Have some pride!_ he thinks. He's faced far worse than an intimidating dwarf!

The dwarf snorts, but he bows his head in greeting. "Dwalin, son of Fundin, at your service. Head of the Ereborian Guard." Oh no. "There's a dwarf hiding behind you." Oh _no_. 

Bilbo wonders if maybe he shouldn't have just stayed in bed this morning.

"Yes," he says, a little dryly. "I am aware of that."

Dwalin frowns at him. "He's just been caught thieving," he says. "Hand him over."

Bilbo almost does it, but he can feel little Ori's big eyes taking in everything and his own soft heart folds in on itself. He's not going to make the lad watch his brother be clapped in chains and led away. He adopts his most disbelieving look and watches with no little despair as Dwalin's frown deepens. Bilbo's a better liar than most of his relatives, but considering how terrible they all are at it, that's not saying much—and clearly Dwalin's got a good nose for bullshit.

"Thieving, you say?" he asks. "Why, that would be rather hard considering he was here, with us, the entire time." He glances down. "Wasn't he, Ori?"

"Yes!" Ori chirps, beaming up at the group and widening his eyes until they are as big and beguiling as any small child's can be. Some of the guard soften a little at the sight. When Bilbo glances down at Ori, he winks a little. 

What a little con artist. Must run in the family.

"Here?" Dwalin says, his voice a low rumble. "Really? We must've imagined the dwarf we've been chasing for the past twenty minutes who looks just like him then."

Nori, the blasted numpty, decides to take that moment to pop in on the situation.

"Ah, that's be my evil twin," he says over Bilbo's shoulder. "Gets me into all sorts of trouble."

"And why," Dwalin says, his eyes narrowing, "are you hiding behind a hobbit when you've done nothing wrong?"

"Reflex," Nori says gravely. "Whenever I see that handsome mug of yours Dwalin, I know I'm about to get blamed for _something_. You've trained me to run and jump behind anyone who's nearby out of self-defense."

Someone in the crowd of guards snickers. Dwalin, to Bilbo's amusement, gets a little ruddy around the cheeks.

"He's coming with us!" Dwalin snaps. "Move out of the way, halfling!"

Bilbo's amusement takes a nosedive into irritation. By Yavanna, were all dwarves born with the manners of orcs?

"No," he says, because he doesn't want to give this Dwalin character a thing now. "He's been here the entire time and he's done nothing wrong." A snort behind him makes him snap his elbow back, catching Nori in the midriff. He makes a satisfying grunt, but thankfully stays silent. "If you want him, Master Dwalin, you'll have to take me as well." He smiles, pleasant as can be. "And I _am_ an ambassador here to work out a treaty. I don't think King Thráin would be pleased if you arrested me."

Dwalin goes very still and his eyes narrow. "He's a thief," he says. "Just made off with all kinds of money and jewels and you're standing there refusing to let us take him?"

"He's entirely innocent," Bilbo insists.

Dwalin stares at him, as if he expects that to make Bilbo back down. A few months ago, Bilbo might've given in—Dwalin is an imposing figure, with the hair and the muscles and tattoos across his knuckles—but he'd traveled halfway across Middle-Earth now and what scared him as a faunt in Bag End didn't faze him now. Dwalin seems to realize this after a moment and, for some reason, he smirks.

"Alright, lads," he says to his group. "Back to your posts. Looks like Nori's got himself a champion—no arrest today."

There's a lot of muttering, but the guards do as Dwalin says and disperse. Dwalin, however, doesn't move. He surveys their little group with crossed arms for a long moment.

"Nori," he says and Bilbo feels Nori straighten out against his back.

"Yes, you handsome devil?"

Bilbo wants to rub at his face, but he feels like doing so would be an admittance of weakness in front of someone like Dwalin. What kind of dwarves has he gotten himself mixed up with?

"I catch you again, not even the hobbit will save you," Dwalin says. He meets Bilbo's eyes. "And as for you, little hobbit—you interfere again, I'll lock you up too, ambassador or no. Understand?"

Bilbo nods and watches for Dwalin to stomp off around the corner and out of sight before he goes wobbly-kneed. This is not where he expected his morning to go.

"Well that was close," Nori observes and Bilbo whirls on him.

He's a tall dwarf—not as obnoxiously tall as Thorin, but he's a good head over Bilbo. Bilbo notices for the first time that his _eyebrow hair_ is included in his obnoxiously intricate braids. Dwarves are insane. 

"You—!"

"Ori, did you get this nice hobbit to help your brother out?" Nori asks, squatting down to look Ori in the eye and completely ignoring Bilbo. "Did you use The Eyes on him?" Bilbo can _hear_ the capitals. 

Ori looks between Nori and Bilbo and then, to Bilbo's irritation, grins. "Yup!"

Nori ruffles his hair, making his cap slip entirely from his head. "Good lad!"

" _Ex_ cuse me," Bilbo says. "Could I have a moment of your time, seeing as I risked my own head to keep you out of jail?"

Nori straightens and bows to Bilbo. "Nori, at your service," he says. 

"Yes, yes, Bilbo Baggins. Rather at yours, I imagine."

"Thanks for the help, Bilbo," Nori says, cheerfully disregarding all rules of propriety and manners. "Rather good of you to get between me and Dwalin like that—"

"You didn't leave me much choice," Bilbo mutters.

"—rather like getting between a dragon and his gold, I expect," Nori continues on as if Bilbo hasn't spoken. "Didn't know hobbits were as brave as that."

Bilbo's eyes narrow. Does everyone in this mountain think hobbits are scared rabbits? They may not run off and fight wars and such, but that's because they're _sensible_ , unlike dwarves who, Bilbo is coming to realize, are plain mad.

"He's hardly that terrifying," Bilbo snaps.

Nori snorts. "Most dwarves in Erebor would disagree with you," he says. "Dwalin rules the guard with a fist of mithril and the rest of the mountain follows the law mainly to stay in his good graces."

"What about you, then?" Bilbo asks, arching a brow.

Nori's grin is a sly, wicked thing. "Well, I like to keep Master Dwalin on his toes, y'see."

Bilbo looks at Nori's grin and his twinkling eyes and decides that he really doesn't need to know more than that.

"Well if that's all you need me for," he says dryly, "I'd best be off."

"Oh no, you'll need to come to ours for breakfast," Nori says. He pauses. "Well, lunch now, I suppose. But you just saved me and Ori a bunch of trouble, our older brother will have our head if we let you slip away."

"Older brother?"

"Dori," Nori says. He winks. "He's the only one of us with any good manners, y'see. He'll get angry if we let him down."

"Shouldn't you have thought of that before you decided to commit thievery?" Bilbo asks, but he's smiling now. Nori is a a thief and got Bilbo into a considerable amount of bother, but he's charming, in his own way. 

"Well, I consider it good manners to relieve people of items that they may not necessarily need," Nori says practically. "I'm just looking out for their best interests. Now, come on—I promise we'll return you in one piece." He looks Bilbo up and down and laughs. "In fact, I think Dori will absolutely _love_ you."

Bilbo looks down the hall, then back at the two dwarves. Well. Why not?

"Lead the way," he says, and follows them down the corridor.

* * *

Nori and his brothers live in a small two-roomed apartment on the lower levels that Nori leads them to in a dizzying whirl of corridors and strange moving boxes that bring you up and down parts of the mountain. Bilbo's sure he won't be able to find his way back to his apartments now and feels like he should be worried about the fact that he's in a strange place with a couple of known criminals, but he's too interested to really care. Erebor really _is_ huge. 

"Home, sweet home," Nori says as he knocks twice on a nondescript door and opens it. "Dori! We're back!" He looks back at Bilbo. "And we've got a guest!"

There's a crash further inside, probably from whatever passes for a dwarvish kitchen. Bilbo looks around the apartment curiously—it's a small place, especially compared to the apartments that the King had given his family, but it's cozy. There are all sorts of little knitted things everywhere—even, to Bilbo's surprise, little animals clearly made of yarn placed on windowsills and tables. There's a hearth on one side of the room, and the table near it has a tea set on it. Above it hangs a portrait of a dwarf with extraordinarily red hair and a thick beard braided as intricately as Nori's. 

There's another crash and then another dwarf comes racing out of one of the back rooms. He's older than Nori, if his deeply braided silver hair is anything to go by, and looks a little more put together than both his brothers—his neat clothes are cut to his figure and of a good color. 

"A guest?" he says to Nori, for Bilbo is behind him and not immediately visible. "What in Mahal's name—" He stops short when he finally sees Bilbo and his eyes widen. "That's one of the hobbits!" he hisses to Nori.

"Bilbo Baggins," Bilbo says, bowing his head. "At your service."

"Dori, at yours," the dwarf says. "Nori, what in Mahal's name did you _do_?"

"My brother has so little faith in me," Nori says to Bilbo and though he sounds mournful, his eyes laugh. "Isn't that so sad? Family should _trust_ each other."

"Your brother got me into a bit of trouble with the Guard," Bilbo tells Dori, who looks ready to have a heart-attack. "Apparently that warrants a free lunch."

Dori's turning an alarming shade of red.

"The _Guard_?" he demands of Nori. "What did you do, you little—Did you steal something again? What did you take this time?" Dori's eyes narrow. "Is this about _Dwalin_ again?"

Nori, to Bilbo's amusement, colors. "No," he snaps. "And I didn't take anything _important_. Just some easily misplaced jewels—" he pulls out a heavy diamond necklace from a mysterious pocket, "—and some coin—" he slaps down a heavy purse next to the necklace, "—and even some small baubles." He flashes several jeweled rings, flipping them through his fingers so fast that they seem to disappear. 

Dori pinches the bridge of his nose. "One of these days, they _will_ catch you," he says. "And sooner or later Dwalin's going to stop taking pity on you and actually put you in a cell for _months_ instead of days."

Nori scoffs. "As if they could keep me there."

"And what were you doing with Ori this entire time, hm?" Dori demands. The youngest dwarf stiffens at the sound of his name and hides behind Bilbo. "No, you're not in trouble, dear—Nori? You were supposed to be looking after him!"

"I told him to stay put!" Nori says. 

"He's barely even _eleven_ , Nori, you can't expect him to just _listen_ to you—!"

"Perhaps I should leave?" Bilbo suggests, a little timid in the face of such a row, but Dori and Nori whirl on him in sync—and while before Bilbo hadn't thought they looked particularly alike, in their outrage and irritation the familial relation becomes strikingly clear. 

"Absolutely not!" Dori thunders, and turns to stomp off into the kitchen. "I was already laying out lunch and it won't be another moment before it's ready."

"If you leave, you'll make Dori cry," Ori says to Bilbo, tugging on his sleeve with the extreme gravity only children of a certain age can muster.

"Well, we don't want that, do we?" Bilbo says and the lad shakes his head. "I suppose I'll just have to stay, then." He eyes Nori, who's settled to fume in one of the threadbare chairs. "Don't suppose you're going to explain—"

"Nope." Nori doesn't even look at him.

Bilbo sighs and looks down at Ori. "You've got an interesting life ahead," he tells Ori. 

Ori considers this. "I think I want to be like Nori when I'm old," he says.

Dori, who has impeccable timing, manages to walk back into the room just as Ori says this and just about drops his plates of sandwiches. The comic horror in his face nearly sets Bilbo off in a fit of giggles.

Ori, oblivious to the effect he's had on his oldest brother, smiles up at Bilbo. "Lunch-time!" he announces and scrambles for the food in Dori's limp hands.

Dori at least recovers the presence of mind to set the plates down and settle in a chair before he puts his face in his hands. Bilbo, who comes from a large extended family and knows well the kinds of embarrassments and disbelief relatives can cause, fixes him a cup of tea from the tea set and settles down at the table.

* * *

They eat with good-natured chatter once Dori recovers and Nori comes to join them. The brothers are all loud and charming, in their own rights—Dori is fussier than some of the most traditional hobbits and Nori likes to flirt outrageously and Bilbo's a little convinced that the sweet angel routine Ori puts on is all a calculated farce, but Bilbo finds that he quite likes them all regardless.

"You ate with the royals last night, didn't you?" Nori asks as Dori clears away the plates and Ori scampers off to play with some toys. Nori squints at Bilbo with consideration. "Aye, weren't you the one who left midway through?"

Bilbo freezes. Nori, with a criminal's intuition, smirks at him. 

"What'd you do?" he asks with delight. "Oh come, out with it, it must be pretty bad to make you go as pale as that—"

"Leave Master Baggins alone, Nori," Dori says as he resettles into his own seat and starts another pot of tea. "I'm sure he had his reasons." Dori pauses, then adds, a touch wistfully, "What're they like?"

Bilbo frowns, his embarrassment over the scene he'd made last night forgotten for a moment. "Who?" he asks, nonplussed. "The royals?"

"Yes."

"Well, they're—I suppose I don't really know. I've only know them for a day, and we only spent a few hours together at that. Don't _you_ know?" 

Nori and Dori exchange looks. "Well, we do have a distant relation," Dori says and Bilbo blinks with surprise. He wouldn't have guessed _that_. "But it's an— _unofficial_ one, you might say."

"Our grandmother was a bastard child of old Thrór's brother," Nori says. "So the line of Durin isn't exactly keen to acknowledge us, y'see." [1]

"Nori!"

"But why do you live down here, if you're related to the royal family?" Bilbo asks, nonplussed. 

Nori's face hardens. "Dwarves aren't fond of bastards," he says and Dori tries to shush him again, looking around anxiously in case Ori should hear. "It's considered dishonorable to have children outside your marriage, so when Grór had a daughter with a serving maid . . . ." He shrugs. "We don't have much to do with the royal family and they don't look at us if they can help it."

Bilbo can't quite fathom that. Hobbits have a keen moral judgement about bastards, sure, but most of the time they're adopted into one family or the other and they're never just _ignored_. But the bitter look on Nori's face tells him it's a story he shouldn't pry into, so he gets back into the matter at hand.

"You've still lived under their rule, though," he says. "Shouldn't you know what they're like just from that?"

"Mahal, no," Nori says. "No common-born associate with the royals, not unless they've proven themselves in battle or something. Some of the lads who went to Azanulbizar moved up in the ranks, like that new guard Bifur—"

"Usually we only see them from afar," Dori interrupts. "I mean, we know that Thráin's a good king, better than—" He stops suddenly, eyes widening.

"Than?" Bilbo prompts, curious. 

"The old king," Nori says. Bilbo gets the feeling that Dori and Nori share the same feelings on more subjects than they might admit, but Nori is always the one to voice them. "The one I mentioned before, King Thrór. He, uh—well, he died shortly before Smaug did."

There's a long silence. Even Nori seems unwilling to talk about it, which surprises Bilbo. 

"What happened to him?" Bilbo dares ask after the silence stretches for long enough. 

The brothers exchange a look. 

"He was ill," Dori says. "He was found dead in his chambers one morning about, oh, a month or so before Smaug came. He was quite old, but there were some terrible rumors . . . ."

"Ill?" Bilbo asks, brow furrowing. "How—?"

Outside the apartment, a heavy bell tolls and Bilbo jumps. The deep sound of it rattles his bones and sets his teeth on edge, but both Dori and Nori seem unaffected.

"You'd best be getting back, Master Baggins," Dori says. "That'll be the midday bell—I'm sure your people are looking for you by now."

Bilbo's eyes widen. "Oh Yavanna," he says. "I was supposed to meet with the King and Uncle Isengrim after the midday meal! Does that happen before or after the bell?"

"After," Nori says, standing. "I'll lead you back up to the dining hall—if you try to do it yourself, I've no doubt you'll just get lost." He flashes a smile. "And then who'll I have to rescue me from dashing Guardsmen?"

Bilbo rolls his eyes, but stands as well. He bows to Dori, who looks startled at the gesture.

"Thank you for your hospitality," he says. "I hope you won't mind if I come back to visit again sometime soon."

Dori's visibly flustered now, going red in the face and smiling. "Oh, of course!" he says. "It's the least we can do, after all, for what you did for Ori and Nori! If you want to bring of your family down as well, Master Baggins, they're more than welcome."

Bilbo beams at him and they exchange goodbyes before Nori leads him out. 

* * *

Dwalin marches into the training grounds like a dwarf with a mission on the brain. He hardly looks at the dwarves who snap to attention as he passes by, throwing him salutes and panicked eyes and barely concealed fear. There's nothing out of the ordinary there for Dwalin. The dwarf he wants, the one he's spent the last half-hour hunting down, is all the way in the back of the grounds, secluded in his own little section and hitting a wooden dummy with a dulled sword with the mindless ferocity of someone trying hard to forget his feelings.

Dwalin smirks.

"I'll give you my new axe if you can guess what happened to me today," he says and enjoys the way Thorin's sword misses its mark a little in surprise. Teethed and named as Azanulbizar and still Thorin didn't hear him coming—Dwalin makes a mental note to use that against him in a spar in the future. 

Thorin turns on him with a scowl. "I'm training, Dwalin," he says. "Whatever Nori did today, I don't want to hear it."

Dwalin scowls. Now he's _definitely_ going to flay Thorin at their next spar. He doesn't talk about Nori _that much_.

"It's not what Nori did," he says. "It's who got him out of trouble. Go ahead—guess."

Thorin rolls his eyes. "That older brother of his?" he asks.

"Wrong."

"Fine, one of his criminal friends."

"Wrong again."

"Oh, for Mahal's sake—"

"Bilbo. Baggins."

Thorin drops his sword. Dwalin hasn't had this much fun in _ages_. He makes a show of nonchalantly examining his nails as Thorin stares at him. 

"Y'see, Nori had managed to escape the market and make a runner," he says. "Chased him halfway through the mountain before we caught up to find him hiding behind none other than Master Baggins. And to everyone's surprise, especially those of us who spent twenty bloody minutes chasing him, Baggins insisted that Nori had been with him the entire time _and_ that he was completely innocent."

Dwalin begins to think Thorin's died of shock. 

"He—" Thorin says. "He— _what_."

"Saved Nori's hide, even in the face of twenty of my best guards," Dwalin says. "He's a brave little bugger, in't he?"

" _Him_?" Thorin asks.

"Well, he wouldn't hand Nori over no matter what I said or how much I waved my axe under his nose," Dwalin says. He watches Thorin closely out of the corner of his eye and hides a smile when he sees Thorin begin to flush. "Isn't he the one you said was a coward?"

Thorin's jaw drops. "How did you—" His eyes narrow. " _Dís_."

"If you don't want me to find out, you shouldn't tell your sister," Dwalin says. "You know how much she likes to share when you do something stupid."

"I did _not_ —"

"Especially when it happens because you're just fucking terrible at being sociable."

"You don't even know what sociable _means_ ," Thorin says sulkily.

"Sure I do," Dwalin says, not offended in the least. "It means the opposite of whatever the hell Thorin's doing." 

"I was polite to him," Thorin mutters. "He took offense without warning. He is too sensitive."

Dwalin snorts. "You told him that his people were cowards," he says. "If some outsider had the nerve to say to my face, I'd beat them bloody and so would you."

Thorin's sullen silence speaks for itself on the truth of that. Dwalin surveys the dwarf who is his prince and will one day be his king and sighs. Balin's much better at this sort of thing, he can admit that without shame, but sometimes Thorin really does just need to have his head knocked in a little. When Dís told him the story of the dinner this morning, he'd thought Thorin had just had a little too much ale or gotten a bad headache—things that made Thorin irritable and more likely to snap at whatever poor bastard passed by. But having seen the hobbit for himself, Dwalin can guess the problem; Master Baggins is a tiny thing, fine-eyed and curly-haired, and he'd gone icy and dismissive when Dwalin tried to intimidate him, clearly not having it at all despite the fact that bigger dwarves than him cowered when Dwalin glared them down. To Thorin, being near Baggins is probably like being a dragon and having gold waved under your nose, and neither of the fools have realized it yet.

"Don't you have negotiations soon?" Dwalin asks. 

"In the hour," Thorin says, looking grumpy about it. 

"Well, come on then," Dwalin, says, drawing out his axes. "Let's have a spar before you go off. You'll need it to survive all that diplomacy."

Thorin rolls his eyes, but readies his axe. Dwalin grins a little as they begin—the next few months are going to be _fun_.

* * *

Thorin saunters into the negotiation chamber feeling refreshed and cheerful—there's nothing better than a good brawl, especially with Dwalin, who never holds back and takes some sort of peculiar delight in doing his best to beat Thorin bloody. There are few dwarves who are as nonchalant about hacking at their prince as Dwalin, something Thorin has always appreciated about his friend. 

In the chamber is a large round table made entirely of stone. Gandalf sits in one of the highbacked chairs, as well as Thráin, Thain Isengrim, Balin—and, to Thorin's disgruntlement, Bilbo Baggins. 

"Ah, Thorin," Thráin says, standing and giving him a clap to the back as Thorin approaches. "Is that all of us, Gandalf?"

"I believe so," Gandalf says. Thorin glances at him suspiciously—he does not like that tone of voice. Gandalf sounds _far_ too cheerful. "Shall we begin then, my friends?"

"Yes, yes," Thain Isengrim says, leaning forward in his seat. "Now, the King and I discussed it last night and we've come to a decision on how this negotiation between our people will be handed."

"Uncle?" Baggins asks, brow furrowing. 

Thorin will not admit it, but he's just as wary as Baggins is. 

"Thain Isengrim and I have decided to step out of the negotiation proceedings entirely," Thráin says. "From this moment forward, the treaty will be handled by Thorin, to speak for the dwarves, and you, Master Baggins, to speak for the hobbits."

If a pin had dropped in the chamber, it would've made an awfully loud noise.

"You _cannot_ be serious—"

"You're leaving me alone with _him_ —"

"Hush," Isengrim says and, to Thorin's surprise, Baggins actually shuts his mouth. "I have full trust in you, my boy," he continues. "We both know that I'm not a good hand with this sort of thing and neither are any of your cousins, bless their hearts. You just go forward as you think is best and I trust you'll get us out of here with what we need."

Baggins has gone red around the ears—the sight is so distracting that Thorin switches his attention back to his father, who stares at him with his eyebrows raised. 

"I have the same faith in you, Thorin," Thráin says. "Balin can act as advisor, if you feel that you need him, but this will be good practice for you, I think, for when the time comes in the future that you will be king." Thráin smiles at him, a little wickedly. "And good practice for your diplomacy as well, I should think."

Baggins' snort is rude as well as loud—Thorin gives him a glare over his shoulder, but Baggins is wholly unaffected, the little imp. Thorin's never wanted to strangle someone so badly. 

"If you think this is best, father," Thorin says as he turns back to Thráin, who looks oddly amused. "I will abide by your wishes."

Baggins sighs. "Oh, very well," he says.

Thorin thinks that his grim determination is rather more suited to someone marching off to war than sitting in a negotiation chamber—and is that really necessary? Honestly, he's not _that bad_ — 

"Gandalf will stay as mediator," Isengrim says. "Once you've all come to an agreement, we'll get the treaty signed and we can all relax in celebration! There's no particular rush, of course, but I would prefer to have this out of the way before the Durin's Day celebrations start, if you two wouldn't mind."

"Yes, within the fortnight would be best for all involved," Thráin agrees. "And anything you need to get things settled, just let us know." 

Thráin and Isengrim stand and say their goodbyes before they stroll out of the chamber as if they haven't a care in the world. For a long moment, Thorin and Baggins just stare at each other from their places across the wide stone table, Gandalf and Balin looking on. Baggins looks a little windswept, as if he hadn't had time to go back to his room and tidy himself up—Thorin wonders if Nori, the thief that Dwalin's been obsessed with catching for years now, brought him somewhere after his rescue. His chest tightens at the thought and he scowls. Baggins scowls back at him and Thorin notices Gandalf smiling out of the corner of his eye.

Damned wizards.

"Shall we begin?" Gandalf asks. "I do think the first item of business is the work to be done on the lands around Erebor . . . ."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Although we're told that the brothers 'Ri are distantly related to Thorin, we're never told how exactly. I've decided to give them my own backstory and make them a little more closely related—their grandmother was the bastard daughter of Thrór's brother Grór (who is also Dáin II's grandfather). So they're like… cousins, of a sort, to Thorin and the rest, but they're not acknowledged because they were born out of wedlock—more on that later on. Suffice to say, in dwarven culture, bastards are bad with a capital B.


	3. where there's dwarves, there's fights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies friends - this took longer to get out than i initially thought it would. school and work are kicking my ASS right now - updates are still coming, but they'll probably be slow until after school gets out. thank you for all your kind words and kudos so far!!

"—can't believe you'd even—"

"—did you expect? To get the help of our people without—"

"—realize you would deny us simple—"

"—selfish creature indeed, if you think—"

"—and _you_ are as greedy as the stories say, if you refuse so much as—"

"Enough!"

Thorin jumps when Gandalf roars and realizes with some embarrassment that he and Baggins have been shouting in each other's face for the past five minutes, so close that Thorin can see the flecks of gold of Baggins' dark eyes. He hurriedly leans back and hopes he isn't flushing. Gandalf rubs at his temple and surveys the room grimly.

"It is a grave day indeed when two diplomats are reduced to yelling at each other like children," he says. Gandalf never yells, but his scold is quite effective even when it's spoken in a pleasant, even tone. Thorin winces. "Your family has entrusted this treaty to the both of you and right now, I must say that I think you are letting them down."

Baggins folds his arms and sticks his little chin in the air.  

"They demand too much of us, Gandalf," he says. "We can't just ask our people to uproot their entire lives and move to Erebor! It's madness!"

"Lands ravaged by dragonfire require constant tending in order to flourish," Thorin says, trying to keep a hold of his temper. He's _explained_ this already. "There's no telling how long it will take for the lands to heal enough to grow on their own—"

"More than that," Baggins continues to Gandalf as if Thorin hasn't spoken, "they want us to uproot everything and move here and then refuse to give us our due!"

"Every term in that treaty is fair!" Thorin says.

"Really, Master Oakenshield?" Baggins asks, whirling back on him. He waves the heavy scroll with their negotiation terms on it under his nose. "Then what about this one, hm? _After a period of five months, hobbit workers will be put under permanent supervision by dwarfs appointed by the King, who will manage the day-to-day work activities and liaison between the hobbit workers and the mountain._ "

Thorin shares a baffled look with Balin. "I don't see how—"

Baggins' eyes narrow. "You want us to come here as experts in our field," he says, as slow and careful as if he was talking to a dwarfling. "You plan to make us _move_ here. And yet you'll appoint us masters from your own people to watch us? You'll make us—Yavanna, this is not a treaty! This is signing hobbits into _indentured servitude_."

"Now, Master Baggins—" Balin interrupts, leaning forward.

"No! Not only do you expect us to work under dwarves in an area which you've already admitted you're all _terrible in_ , but when we first arrive we will not be permitted to purchase homes in Erebor and must reside in Dale!"

"Erebor is a dwarvish city," Balin says. "We do not permit outsiders to live here."

"Are we going to be compensated for living in a city that's already dangerously close to being overpopulated?" Baggins demands. "How will we have the funds to buy these houses? More to the point—many hobbits don't _like houses_. We prefer to live underground. Will we be given land to build smials?"

"Smials?" Thorin asks, utterly perplexed. 

The term about living in Dale _had_ come about because Erebor maintains a zealous anti-outsider policy: only dwarves are permitted to live and thrive in her halls. But he and Thráin had also thought the hobbits would be delighted to not live in Erebor, in close quarters with a people so unlike their own. 

"Our hills!" Baggins says.

"Many hobbits live in hills in the earth, Master Dwarf," Gandalf cuts in. "Much like you dwarves, they prefer the comfort of being underground."

"Perhaps we can arrange a purchase of land outside of Dale," Balin suggests.

Baggins doesn't seem appeased. "You want _us_ to move halfway across Arda and then expect us to purchase the land we need for homes from you?"

"You can't expect to get it for free!" Thorin says, appalled. "All dwarves are expected to pay for their homes!"

"Have you paid for yours, Prince?" Baggins asks.

Thorin stiffens. "My family has paid for this mountain with blood and sweat a thousand times over," he says, going cold with anger. 

Baggins looks from Gandalf to Thorin to Balin and takes a slow, even breath.

"My apologies," he says, and he does sound calmer now. "That was uncalled for. But the fact remains that these terms are grossly unfair to my people, who are only coming so far to help you rebuild what you have lost. You ask us to pay for territory we need to move here, you expect us to work under the rule of dwarves for an indefinite amount of time, and your wages are low even by Shire standards. We cannot go forward on this."

"The wages are the same as any miner's, and you'll be doing easier work," Thorin says.

Baggins' hands ball into fists—they are only half the size that Thorin's would be, if he were to do the same, but Thorin has a feeling that they'll still hurt if Baggins actually gets enraged enough to punch him.

" _We_ will be rebuilding a ravaged countryside from the ground up," Baggins says, faux-calm. "That's going to be incredibly taxing work, even after the ground stabilizes and we can start a harvest. We don't just sit around in circles and play with flowers, Master Oakenshield, and we deserve better wages!"

Thorin considers this. "And the dwarvish oversight?" he asks, eyebrows lifting.

Baggins' small chin goes in the air again. Thorin thinks it must be some sort of tick, for he does it whenever he gets angry or stubborn. 

"We are not servants or slaves, Master Oakenshield. We don't need to be—to be watched and managed! Why can we not have a hobbit overseer, who not only knows the people but the actual business?" His eyes narrow. "The choice to appoint an overseer from Erebor just speaks of a mistrust that hobbits have done little to earn."

" _Mistrust_ —?!"

" _Act as liaison between the hobbits and the mountain_?" Baggins says. " _Appointed by the King_? Sounds like whoever it is will be keeping a right close eye on us and I don't appreciate the intimation that we need to be watched!" 

Thorin wishes for a second that his father had never had the fool idea to leave this up to him and had to be here instead to deal with this. He'd had no idea that hobbits could be so obstinately hard-headed. He's opening his mouth, prepared to say _something_ even if he doesn't quite know _what_ , when a bell tolls outside.

"Dinner hour," Gandalf says, standing. "Well, gentlemen, I say this has a been an—enlightening first day of work. We'll meet again tomorrow, at the same time?"

Baggins sweeps to his feet and stomps out of the room without so much of an acknowledgement. Thorin grinds his teeth and stands, says his goodbyes to Gandalf and Balin, and follows hot on the hobbit's heels.

* * *

Bilbo stomps his way halfway across the mountain before he realizes he has no bloody clue where he's going. He stops mid-stomp and glares at the wall before he turns on his heel to go back the way he came. Last time he got lost, he ended up as the cover story for a thief - he's learned his lesson.

He pauses when he hears the heavy ring of steel against steel and peeks into the room he'd been passing—inside, dozens of dwarven warriors clash, obviously training. Bilbo stands in the entryway and watches them for a while, both intimidated and amazed by their strength and skill. His own swordplay, if it can be called that, is childish in comparison. 

"Oi."

Bilbo jumps about a foot in the air, hand already going to where Sting rests at his waist before he registers that the voice is… familiar. He whirls around, eyes widen, and curses inwardly when he meets the gaze of the intimidating Dwalin—the dwarf he convinced earlier to let Nori go free. By lying to him. 

Yavanna must be laughing at him.

"Good evening, Master Dwalin," Bilbo says, with as much dignity as he can muster. "I am… pleased to see you again, under circumstances that are hopefully much better than the last time we met."

Dwalin snorts. "You've got pretty manners for a liar," he says.

"I am not a liar!" Bilbo protests, puffing up with indignation before he can remember that that is—not exactly the truth. Dwalin fixes him with a steady, scrutinizing eye and he collapses in on himself again. "At least, not all the time," he mutters.

Dwalin snorts again, this time deeper and even less convinced. "Aye, I suppose. What're you doing here, hobbit? Last I heard you were going to be in with Thorin and the King."

"The talks—" Bilbo pauses, considers how to phrase this so as not to offend. "They did not go well," he decides on. "We ended for dinner and will reconvene tomorrow."

"' _Did not go well_ ' my arse," Dwalin says and Bilbo nearly chokes. "What'd Thorin do now?"

"The crown prince was very—very—" Will Dwalin take his head off if Bilbo speaks the truth? Better to play it safe. "Forthright. With his opinions."

Dwalin looks at him for a long time and then, to Bilbo's astonishment, begins to laugh. " _Forthright_ ," he repeats. "Oh, you do have pretty manners indeed, hobbit! Come, you must show us what you're made of."

He takes Bilbo by the elbow and begins to drag him into the room where the dwarves continue to fight, though some near the door have stopped to watch the spectacle. Bilbo tries to dig his heels in, but he can't find purchase against the smooth stone floors and Dwalin has a strong grip. 

"No, wait—I'm sorry, but I really must— _Ex_ cuse me, but—!"

"Dwalin."

Dwalin freezes, lets go of Bilbo and Bilbo, still struggling for escape, ends up tumbling backward, straight into whoever called out Dwalin’s name. He tries for a moment to get his balance, finds his mouth full of _fur_ , and when he looks into Thorin’s glaring eyes, can’t find it in him to be much surprised. He only comes up to Thorin’s chin—he is _distressingly tall_ , even for a dwarf—and there’s a lot of very hard chest underneath his hands. Are all dwarrows so—so— _built_?

“Thorin,” Dwalin says. “Was going to spar with your little hobbit.”

Bilbo whirls around, bristling up to his full height. “Ex _cuse_ me!” he snaps. “I am not his little anything!” There’s a brief choked sound behind him, but Bilbo ignores it. “And I am _not_ small!” he declares, firmly ignoring that he has to tilt his head back to look Dwalin in the eye. “ _And_ as I would have _told_ you if you’d _asked_ me, I do not _want_ to fight!"

"Don't want to fight?" Dwalin asks, put-out. "But why?"

Bilbo flounders for a good enough excuse that will make Dwalin leave the issue well alone. The truth is, he doesn't want to fight because he knows that next to any of these dwarves he is an amateur—he may have used his little sword against the orcs and goblins, but he survived mostly through luck and sheer pig-headedness, not his swordplay. Which is _abysmal_.

"I am quite terrible," he says, because he can't come up with a good enough lie. Honestly, this is why he needs Esme around—she can come up with any lie she likes right on the spot. "I'd hardly give you a good fight."

"Oh, I don't know," Dwalin says. "Your sword's a little pig-sticker, but you've got a scrappy look about you. And didn't your party fight orcs?"

Bilbo shivers; he doesn't like to remember the full day and night they spent running from the orcs before they were eventually cornered, the way that his sword felt plunging into an orc's chest—the screams as they died.

"Yes," he says. "But all I did was stick them with the pointy end."

Dwalin laughs again. "See? You've got the basics down already." He gets an inordinately sly look. "Besides, Thorin and I are the best warriors in the mountain—we could teach you a thing or two, couldn't we, Thorin?"

Thorin does not look pleased to be pulled into this situation. "I didn't come here to spar," he says. "I wanted to talk to Master Baggins—"

"Well, we can do it over a little friendly fight, can't we?"

" _Dwalin_ —"

Without warning, Dwalin rushes at Bilbo—for a dwarf of his size, he is surprisingly fast, but he was far enough away that Bilbo has time to draw Sting and make a clumsy block against the axe Dwalin swings down at his head. His arm aches—Dwalin has incredible strength—but he manages to stop it, which makes him a little proud.

"Are you out of your gorram mind?" he hisses at Dwalin, but the dwarf pays him little mind as he continues his attack.

Bilbo would've had a harder time of it if he were taller or heavier—as a hobbit, he's quicker than even the fastest dwarf, so he's able to duck and dodge most of Dwalin's attacks. Every time he does try a head-on defense, his arm aches and his muscles grow weaker, so he sticks to his method of avoidance. He isn't aware that they've gathered an audience until he sees an opening and rolls neatly between Dwalin's open legs as he makes a lunge and comes up to thunderous hoots and applause. Disoriented, it takes him a moment to recollect himself and that ends up being his downfall—Dwalin takes his sword with a flick and holds his axe to Bilbo's heaving chest.

"Alright, alright, the show's over," Dwalin says and Bilbo looks around, stunned to see that most of the other dwarves in the room have gathered around to watch them fight. Some grumble good-naturedly as they make their way back to their previous positions and a few even clap Bilbo on the shoulder and praise his footwork. Dwalin grins at him, his teeth very white against his dark beard. "Not bad," he says. "You're not as worse off as you think, hobbit."

Bilbo can hardly breathe and Dwalin looks like he's just been taking a stroll through the gardens, so Bilbo hardly thinks that's true. Before he can reply, Thorin steps forward, looking as disgruntled as ever.

"Gandalf must have exaggerated when he said you killed so many orcs on your own," he says. "Did you run around them until they collapsed?"

Oh, the absolute _nerve_ —!

"Well, I tackled one and stabbed it four or five times in the chest," he says, keeping his tone as light as possible, though his eyes never leave Thorin's face. "The other, well, I put Sting here through its eye. The last two I cut off an arm and a leg before I slit their throat. Do you want me to give you pointers, Master Thorin? For you seem to be confused about how to kill an orc, if you think simply running around will do the trick."

Bilbo hears a stifled snicker behind him and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning; Thorin's gone red around the ears. Flushed is an oddly good look on him, but Bilbo refuses to acknowledge that Thorin bloody Oakenshield can be attractive. 

"You will accompany me to dinner, Master Baggins," Thorin says, obviously through gritted teeth. "I would hate for you to get lost again and wind up defending another common criminal from the law."

"My," Bilbo sighs, stepping forward, "the hospitality of Erebor extends much farther than I imagined."

Bilbo thinks he can almost _hear_ Thorin's teeth grinding. He looks over at Dwalin and blinks to see the dwarf grinning at them. What in the Valar's name—? Dwalin notices Bilbo look and offers him a nod.

"You'll have to come back so we can work on your endurance, hobbit," he says. 

Bilbo's still a little tetchy about being strong-armed into a fight, so he smiles sweetly at Dwalin. "Oh, of course. In the meantime, I'll give my regards to Nori for you, shall I?"

It's very satisfying to sweep away and leave Dwalin blushing.

* * *

When Bilbo gets back to their rooms after dinner, he's ambushed.

"Well?" Primula demands. "How did it go?!"

"I heard rumors that you stormed out!" Esme says. "You two didn't start fighting again, did you?"

"I'm sure if they did, Thorin deserved it," Adalgrim says. He's developed a grudge against Thorin because of his words at their first dinner, which Bilbo appreciates. 

Bilbo sighs. "We did argue," he says. "But their terms are just—! We can't just accept them as they are!"

"They're not in our favor, then?" Hamfast asks.

"No," Bilbo says. "I don't think it's . . . intentional, from the way Thorin reacted. Probably just a cultural thing, I think. But we're going to need to change things before we can even think about broaching _that_ topic."

"We're going to need to bring it up soon," Isengrim says from his place by the fire. Unlike the others, he hasn't surrounded Bilbo, content to continue to smoke his pipe in his plush armchair. "It's the reason we came to them, after all."

"I know," Bilbo says. "But we need to iron out the terms we've already set down before we can introduce them to new ones. I'll do what I can over the next few days and bring up _it_ by the end of the week." He makes a face. "Thorin won't like it."

"Thorin's pretty flummoxed by you," Esme says. "So I think you can convince him even if he doesn't. Did you really fight one of the Guard?"

"How do you even _know_ about that?" Bilbo asks, bemused.

Esme grins, her dark eyes lighting up and crinkling at the corners. "I keep my ear to the ground and smile pretty at anyone who wants to talk."

"Plus all the guards were talking about it," Primula says. "They were laughing about someone named Nori?"

"Isn't that the thief?" Esme asks.

She's like a _wizard_.

"I met him," Bilbo agrees. "Early this morning, in fact. He and his family are a bit— _peculiar_ , but they were very nice to me. I'd like to go visit them again."

"Ooh, tell me first so I can come with," Esme says. "I want to meet this Nori fellow."

"Esme and an infamous thief?" Adalgrim says, smirking. "That's a scary thought."

"He's got a little con artist and a gentledwarf for brothers too," Bilbo says. "They'll all get along famously, I think. Maybe in a few days, Esme. I've got to figure out this treaty first."

"Don't strain yourself too much," Esme says, patting Bilbo on the shoulder. "It can't be harder than Thranduil, can it?"

Bilbo's mood sours at the mere mention of Thranduil's name. "No, I just had to bribe him with Shire wine," he says. "I still can't believe he liked it enough for that to work."

"Well, you did give him _half_ of your vineyards," Hamfast says, vaguely disappointed.

"It was either that or he wouldn't give us what we wanted," Bilbo says. "Besides, it's not like I really need the money for myself—all of it's going to _it_."

"The dwarves will probably be easier," Primula says, though she doesn't sound particularly convinced. "After all, they need us too, don't they?"

"Dwarves are more stubborn than elves," Isengrim says. "That's what all the stories say, and my experience thus far hasn't proved them wrong. You'll have to tread carefully, Bilbo."

"I wouldn't have to if you hadn't stuck me in there with that stone-headed fool," Bilbo says. "What _was_ that, Uncle? I thought we were—"

"Thráin and I had a discussion and came to an agreement that it should be handled by the younger parties," Isengrim says. "If Adalgrim had any sense whatsoever, I would've assigned him instead, but alas—"

" _Ex_ cuse me, I have plenty of sense—!"

"You're got too much Took in you, boy," Isengrim says, casting a weathered eye in Adalgrim's direction. "I do too, so trust me when I say that neither of us have the steady hand good negotiation requires. Bilbo, bless his heart, has just enough Baggins to keep holding on and just enough Took to be wily. Diplomat by nature, I'd say."

Bilbo huffs. "I'm really not all that intimidating, uncle," he says. "Esme or Primula would do just fine." 

Isengrim's rather right about Adalgrim, though, and Adalgrim shoots him an amused glare to show that he's noticed Bilbo leaving him out of the mix.

Isengrim snorts. "They've got opposite problems. Primula's too honest and Esme's too sly."

Esme grins. "Thanks, uncle." She casts a look around the room and stretches. "I think I'm to bed, now that I've been so well-complimented. I'll see you all in the morning. Bilbo, don't slip off on your own again—you see how well that turned out today!"

She sends him a kiss and disappears into the room she shares with Prim. Prim rolls her eyes and, after echoing her goodnights, disappears as well.

"I'm going out to the fields tomorrow," Hamfast says as Bilbo comes to sit next to him near the fire. "I'm to be escorted by Princess Dís herself!" He blushes a little. "I don't know what I'll say to her," he confesses. "She's very pretty and I'm just a middle-aged gardener!"

Bilbo scoffs. "You're every bit as good as she is, Hamfast," he says. "I find it's best to think of the royals as normal people first and rulers second—saves a lot of time and anxiety."

"Well, I don't know if I should be following your advice, Bilbo," Hamfast says, an unexpected twinkle in his eye. "After al, you spend most of your time yelling or arguing with Thorin!"

Bilbo sputters. "I—I—do _not_!"

"Have you ever had a normal conversation with the dwarf?" Isengrim butts in, leaning forward in his seat. Damned Tooks. 

"Our conversation at our welcoming dinner started out nice enough," he admits begrudgingly. "But then Thorin actually spoke more than two words at a time and revealed himself to be… most unpleasant."

Adalgrim hoots with laughter, coming over to flop over Bilbo's feet in the way he has since they were no more than faunts and Adalgrim viewed Bilbo's body as his own personal pillow. Bilbo glares down at him, but Adalgrim's smile only deepens.

"I _am_ glad you gave him a proper talking-to, Bilbo," he says. "But it is _such_ a pain to have you for a baby cousin—you always protect yourself, so I never get to do my duty and step in to save you!"

"Indeed, it's usually the other way 'round," Isengrim says and Adalgrim makes a mock wounded noise.

"Uncle!" he protests. "Bilbo does _not_ —"

"What about that time with Lobelia Bracegirdle?" Hamfast says. "At Esme's 22nd, remember?"

There isn't anyone in the Shire who doesn't remember _that_ incident.

"Or that time you nearly drowned in the Brandywine?" Isengrim adds. "There was also, I recall, a certain disagreement with Otho Baggins not too long ago…"

"Well—!"

"Or that Chubb girl that wouldn't leave you alone," Hamfast says, grinning now. "Or—"

"Alright, alright!" Adalgrim says, as loud as possible. He's gone the color of a ripe tomato. Bilbo shakes with silent laughter and Adalgrim turns the stink-eye on him. "You're ten years younger than me, you know," he sulks. "You should learn to _respect_ your elders!"

"Whoever came up with a silly rule like that?" Bilbo teases, still grinning. 

Adalgrim gasps. "I never thought I'd hear the day Bilbo Baggins called any rule _silly_!" he says, with mock affront. "What would the Bagginses say?"

"That I've become more like my fool Took of a mother, I suspect," Bilbo says, and his bright mood dims. 

Silence falls across the room as the other three recognize the change in his mood. Adalgrim, obviously chagrined, pats him on the stomach—the highest point he can reach from his position across Bilbo's calves. 

"She was a lovely hobbit," Isengrim says, sounding a little choked himself. He'd been one of Belladonna's closest brothers. "I miss her every day."

"As do I," Bilbo says. "I think she wouldn't recognize me now, what with the—the sword and the clothes and the adventures. Here I am, in Erebor, of all places, spending my time arguing with the Crown Prince!" He shakes his head, a little amazed. "She wouldn't even know me, like this."

"Oh, I think she would," Isengrim says. "She always knew you were bound for something like this. Used to come 'round telling me about all the little travels you would take, all that time you spent looking for elves and fairies and what-not—"

Bilbo flushes. "I was barely even _ten_ —!"

"Oh, I remember that!" Hamfast says. "You used to come in tracking mud, with leaves in your hair, sulking about how you hadn't managed to see the elves _again_."

"You used to drag me out there too," Adalgrim says. "We'd trek up and down those trails for _hours_ , it was absolute torture."

"You begged me to come with," Bilbo says crossly. "Don't act all high and mighty now, Adalgrim Took." He stands, dumping Adalgrim off his legs unceremoniously. "I'm to bed, I think."

"Aw, Bilbo, don't be like that—"

Bilbo rolls his eyes and swats at Adalgrim's head. "Good _night_ , Grim. Uncle, Hamfast."

They all bid him goodnight as he goes into the room he's sharing with Adalgrim and Hamfast. Bilbo sighs as he enters the blessed silence—he loves his family and friends, but sometimes they _are_ a bit much.

* * *

To Bilbo's surprise, he gets a message early in the morning from Gandalf that says negotiations will be put off for the day—Prince Thorin, apparently, is needed elsewhere. Bilbo waffles between irritation and relief; it's not like he _wants_ to spend another day arguing with Thorin, but he doesn't like that they're being shunted off to the side. In the end, he decides to just be relieved for the reprieve, and spends the day with Esme and Prim as they make their way around the mountain.

Hamfast returns in the evening in raptures over Princess Dís—the land, he is more discouraged about.

"Scorched, the lot of it," he says over dinner. "We'll be lucky if there's anything growing two years from now, let alone next season."

Bilbo sighs, discouraged by unsurprised. "I suppose Thorin had the right of it then, asking us to move here," he says. "But you think it can be recovered?"

"Any land can be coaxed into growing things," Hamfast says. "Although sometimes it's only weeds. I'll need to examine it more carefully to be sure, though. Princess Dís says the lands can be dangerous, so whenever I go out I'll need an escort."

"Dangerous?" Bilbo asks, confused and alarmed. "What—?"

"Orcs," Princess Dís herself interrupts, leaning around Hamfast to talk to Bilbo directly.

They haven't spoken yet, beyond their initial introductions. Dís is a lovely dwarf, even by hobbit-standards—she has long, dark hair and a thickly braided beard with a lot of small baubles in it. Her eyes are as clear and dark a blue as her brother's, though there is something more thoughtful in them than Thorin's, more cautious. 

"You're Bilbo Baggins, aren't you?" she asks, mouth quirking in a smile. "I've heard a lot about you from Dwalin."

Bilbo blinks. "Dwalin?" he asks, bemused.

"We chat," Dís says, waving a hand. "Usually about Thorin, but you've apparently caught his attention." Her smile widens, turns wicked. "He says you've met Nori."

Bilbo grins back at her. "I've had the pleasure," he says.

Dís, in a very Dwalin-ish move, snorts. " _Had the pleasure_ ," she says, teasing. Bilbo's starting to think that dwarves don't hold much by manners. "I also heard you fought Dwalin admirably."

"I just managed to not get killed right away," Bilbo says.

"Admirable indeed, when the opponent is Dwalin," Dís says.Definitely a much better diplomat than her brother, although a rock could be a better diplomat than Thorin. "In any case, no matter how good your swordplay, all hobbits are to have an escort when leaving the mountain, even to go to Dale. There's been an increase of attacks by orcs in the past few months, and we don't want to take any chances."

"I didn't realize there were orcs so close to Erebor," Bilbo says. "I thought we left them behind when we entered Greenwood."

"I would normally agree with you," Dís says. "Yet our patrols have been ambushed more and more in the past months. We aren't yet sure where their nest is, so it's impossible to say where they're coming from."

"I see," Bilbo says, wondering if he should bring this up tomorrow when he meets with Thorin again. It's another good reason to let hobbits live in Erebor—more protected from the possibility of orc attack. "Well, I'd appreciate it if you could keep Hamfast safe—he's our best gardener, y'see."

Hamfast flushes a light red and Dís laughs. They spend the rest of dinner idly chatting and Bilbo leaves thinking that Dís is much more pleasant and easier to talk to than her brother. 

Bilbo spends some time discussing possible terms with Isengrim after dinner, but his uncle is, as always, completely uninterested in negotiation, content to leave everything in Bilbo's hands. Bilbo would be more exasperated, but he's pretty sure that Isengrim is right—out of all of them, he's probably best suited to this sort of thing. Yavanna knows he only has a mediocre talent with plants and with Esme around, they don't need him as a spy. He might as well contribute however he can.

As the hour grows late, Bilbo finds himself restless. Everyone else has already retired, but he still sits in front of the fire, watching the flames go dim. He waits for them to turn to embers before he stands, stretching, and grabs his cloak from his shared room. He pulls the hood over his head and leaves their rooms. 

The mountain is deserted and quiet at the late hour. Bilbo quite likes it like this—no dwarf groups he has to push through, no noise… It's easier to appreciate the splendor of the place when there's not all that sound and movement around. Most of the torches have been dimmed, leaving the mountain in partial twilight. It makes it easier for Bilbo to dodge the odd guard he comes across—he's still not sure what they would do if they found him wandering about on his own. Esme seems to be having an easy enough time of it, but Bilbo's convinced Esme can disappear on command.

He pauses when he reaches some of the lower levels and hears a pack of heavy footsteps, but doesn't manage to hide fast enough from the group coming around the corner. They're a rough bunch, dressed in heavy, practical clothes with dirt streaked all over them. They pause when they see Bilbo, and he hastens to sweep the hood off his head.

"What's this, then?"  one of them says, squinting at Bilbo. He's an older dwarf with a heavy red beard and greying hair. "Who're you and why're you down here so late?"

"He's a hobbit!" another dwarf says, stomping forward to grab Bilbo around the shoulders. He's a handsome sort, with merry dark eyes and a heavy hat covering his hair that's covered in dust and soot. "Didn't you see them when the King welcomed them a few days back? You're so unobservant, Glór."

Glór flushes and the dwarf with his arm around Bilbo's neck laughs. "I'm Bofur," he says to Bilbo. "And that's Dróin over there, and Bél behind him and—" he continues to list off a litany of names that makes Bilbo's head spin. "We're miners," Bofur concludes, thumping his chest with his free hand. "Ruby miners, specifically, though Dróin over there does diamonds sometimes, the lucky bastard."

There's good-natured laughter from the group.

"Ah," Bilbo says. "I'm Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. One of the hobbits, as Master Bofur says."

"Y'hear that, lads?" Bofur crows. " _Master_ Bofur!"

"Don't call him that," the dwarf called Bél advises him. "It'll go to his head."

"Just getting my proper due," Bofur protests. "And what are you doing here, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire?"

Esme would sweep them off their feet with a lie, but Bilbo isn't quite as good with that, the situation with Nori non-withstanding.

"Just couldn't sleep," he says. "I wanted to see more of the mountain without all the… dwarves in the way."

That makes the group roar with laughter. "Aye, that's the best way to do it," Glór says. "Well, if you're still not feeling like sleeping, we're on our way to the nearest pub to have an after-work pint. Drink helps with sleep, I've always said."

"Helps by knocking you out," Bél says, with a wink.

Bilbo smiles. "Alright," he says. A drink doesn't sound so bad, and he's found that he gets more honest answers from people like Nori or Bofur than from the royals, even if Dís had been uncommonly forthright with him. "But I've no money."

"We'll treat," Bofur says, finally taking his arm off of Bilbo's shoulders. He grins down at Bilbo, dark eyes gleaming. "In exchange for you teaching us drinking songs!"

* * *

The pub is a few levels up, apparently one of the only places in the mountain that doesn't close. It's obviously a miner's place, for there are several other groups there dressed as Bofur and his group, with a similar amount of dirt and dust in their hair. They're a rowdy bunch, most of them already so into their cups that they're singing loudly and off-key. They snag a series of tables near the back and order their round. Bofur, sitting closest to Bilbo, bombards him with questions about the Shire, hobbits, and Bilbo specifically. He's curious about the negotiations too, but mostly how Bilbo's getting along with Thorin.

"Aye, he's a hoary fellow," Bofur says. "Don't think I've ever seen him smile before, even after the little Princes were born."

"The little princes?" Bilbo asks, curious. He knew Dís was married, but no one had mentioned children.

"The wee dwarflings," Bél, on his other side, says. "Fíli is the eldest and Kíli the younger, but they're only separated by a few years. Princess Dís was blessed."

"Dwarfs don't have children easily?" Bilbo asks, nonplussed.

"Never more than three," Bofur says. "And usually they're spread out throughout the dam's life. To have two in such a short period is almost a miracle."

"It's probably a family thing," Glór cuts in. "The Princes and Princess Dís aren't so far apart in age, after all. And they've been blessed with three as well."

Bilbo thinks about the brothers he met yesterday. They had seemed fairly far apart in age, for siblings—Nori was clearly already of his majority and Ori was just a babe. 

"Hobbits have a lot of children, usually in quick succession," Bilbo says. "Sometimes a mother can get with child just after having one!"

The dwarves all stare at him. "Those poor mothers," Bél mutters, and they all laugh.

The drinks come, and the dwarves all urge him to teach them a hobbit drinking song. He tries teaching them a couple— _The Maid's Brawl_ and _Drink 'im Under the Table!_ but they don't seem to stick. Bilbo drinks a lot anyway, and tries his hand at some dwarvish songs, though all of them tell him he sings off-key. 

Bilbo's enough in his cups that he doesn't notice anything amiss when a dwarf approaches their table until he slams his hand down, jostling the entire area. Bilbo hiccups and looks up—the dwarf is tall and broad, with dark hair and a heavy beard and he's glowering at them.

"Why'd you bring that little runt with you, Glór?" he demands.

Bilbo exchanges a baffled look with Bofur.

"Who, the hobbit?" Glór asks, similarly flummoxed. "What've you got against him, Aváli?"

Aváli's glower deepens. "Have you heard the way he talks to Prince Thorin?" he asks. "He and his people don't show them or us the proper respect!"

Bilbo's starting to sober up. "I apologize if I've offended you," he says. "But how Thorin and I—"

"You see!" Aváli says. "He is only the second heir and he addresses our prince so familiarly!"

"Now, Aváli," Bofur says, in what Bilbo assumes is meant to be a calming tone. "I'm sure Bilbo—"

Aváli, it seems, has no intention of being calmed down, for he roars and slams _both_ hands on their table, knocking it and their rough dozen pints to the ground, spraying everyone in the near vicinity with ale. Apparently that's enough to start a full-out brawl, for Glór and Bél and even _Bofur_ come at Aváli roaring, and Aváli must have friends too, because before long it seems like half the bar is fighting.

Bilbo, being small and quick and easily overlooked (even if he _was_ the start of this particular fight) manages to avoid the worst of it by simply finding a corner and hiding. He winces when he sees Glór go down and Bofur get a nasty knock to the head, but Bél is still fighting when there's heavy armored feet outside and the Guard comes bursting in. The bartender must've called them, Bilbo thinks, relieved. They look singularly unsurprised to find a bar brawl in front of them.

"Alright everyone, let's break it up," says one of the Guard. His impressively muscled figure and thick red hair and beard seem to give him the authority needed to get a bunch of drunken idiots to listen, for everyone parts (with some bitter grumblings). "Now, who started all this, huh?" Silence. The red-haired dwarf snorts. "Give me some names or you all spend the night in a cell."

Bilbo sighs and lifts himself out of his corner. Several dwarfs jump when he speaks up, as if they've forgotten he was even there or expected that he would've run.

"I suppose it was me," he says, calmly stepping forward. "Bilbo Baggins, at your service."

The red-haired dwarf squints at him, jaw dropping in surprise. "Mahal—a hobbit? What're you doing down here, lad?" He glances around at the bunch of bleeding and bruised dwarves and then back at the relatively untouched Bilbo. "You started it, huh?"

Bilbo lifts his chin. "Yes," he says. "Or rather, it started because of me, so if you have to arrest anyone—"

"Glóin!" one of the guards pipes up, hauling a dwarf Bilbo recognizes as Aváli with him. "The others say it was this one."

Bilbo frowns. Aváli had been rude and he _did_ start a bar brawl, but he'd been drunk and trying to be… well, patriotic. 

"It was because of me," he insists. "So if anyone should go to jail, it should be me."

Glóin snorts. "I can't send an ambassador to jail," he says. "The king would have my head. And then Dwalin would kick me in the balls."

"Why would Dwalin care?" Bilbo mutters.

Glóin roars with laughter. "You're the best entertainment he's had in months, lad," he says. "Now, is there agreement? This dwarf here began this fight?"

The ruby miners call out an enthusiastic agreement and Aváli's party gives in with begrudging mutters when Glóin stares them down. Aváli is led out of the bar with some of the Guard and Bilbo thinks, a little morose, that he's hardly likely to be more charitable toward the hobbits _now_.

"You really didn't have to—"

Glóin's clap to his back nearly makes Bilbo collapse. "Of course I couldn't arrest you, lad! You think we arrest every dwarf who gets caught in the middle of a brawl? Far as I can see, you were less involved than _those_ idiots over there—" he tosses a look at the ruby miners, who all try to look suitably chastened. Glóin snorts, so it must not work very well. "Be that as it may, I think we'd better get you back to your rooms, Master Baggins. No sense in letting hobbits like you roam free among the halls, aye?"

Bilbo frowns. "I didn't mean to cause any trouble," he mutters.

"Seems to me trouble follows you around, Master Baggins," Glóin says, with a wink.

Bilbo sighs. Well. It's not like he has anything to prove Glóin _wrong_.

"Very well," he says. He waves goodbye to a cheerful Bofur and Bél and follows Glóin glumly out of the pub. He's never going to hear the end of this from the others, he just knows it.


	4. Water Pail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got really stuck in the middle of this chapter which is why it is SO LATE i'm sorry. but on the plus side, the next chapter is plotted out already AND i'm done with school for the summer, so the next update should be faster. fingers crossed!
> 
> y'all are lovely and wonderful - thank you for all your kind reviews and kudos!

Thorin's wiping sweat from his brow, taking a break from his early morning practice, when someone clears their throat behind him. He scowls when he turns to see Dwalin, but Dwalin, like the great oaf he is, just grins at him. 

"You're not usually up this early," Thorin says, going back to his practice. 

"Glóin had a bit of a rough night," Dwalin says. "Had to break up a bar brawl down on the lower levels—some miners getting into it."

"Oh?" Thorin asks, disinterested. His axe is looking a little dull around the edges, perhaps he should sharpen it…

"—involving Bilbo Baggins."

Thorin's head snaps up. "What?"

Dwalin's grin shows all his teeth. "I _said_ , the brawl apparently was the result of an argument involving Bilbo Baggins."

Thorin blinks. "…I thought you said it was in a bar in the lower levels?"

"Aye."

"How in _Mahal's name_ did Baggins get down there? What was he doing with a bunch of miners?"

"I couldn't tell you. Glóin escorted him back to his chambers, but they didn't chat much."

Thorin swears under his breath. "How is someone so small capable of getting into so much trouble?" he mutters.

"Just thought you should be aware," Dwalin says, grinning again. "Don't you have another meeting with him this afternoon?"

"Unfortunately. We'll probably spend the entire time screaming at each other."

"You know, there are better ways to work out that sort of tension."

Thorin flushes. "Don't be so crude, Dwalin."

Dwalin leers at him. "I'm just _saying_ , Master Baggins might soften up to you a wee bit if you bent him—"

Thorin whirls away, red all the way up to his hair, and ostensibly does _not_ listen to Dwalin's laughter or think about Bilbo Baggins bent over any surface whatsoever. 

* * *

Bilbo sleeps in late, after his midnight adventure, and misses all the breakfasts and elevensies too. To make up for it, he has a truly astonishing amount of food at lunch, which at least has the amusing effect of making all the dwarves around him stare at him in awe. Bilbo finishes tucking in and sniffs. As if dwarves have the monopoly on eating well! 

 He looks up mid-chew when someone sits down next to him and nearly chokes on his meat. Princess Dís grins at him, resplendent in a dark blue gown, her long hair and thick beard carefully braided and neatly combed. In her hair, she wears a simple coronet with some sort of blue gem—Bilbo might've taken them for sapphires, but the color seems too light. 

"Princess," he says as he manages to choke back his food. "I—wasn't expecting to see you here."

"Oh, I had breakfast a few hours ago," Dís says. "But I heard from your cousin that you had slept in, so I thought I would come and sit with you as you ate." Her grin deepens and Bilbo feels an odd sense of impending doom. Doesn't he know that look? Isn't it the same one Esme gets mid-mischief?

"That's very kind of of you, Princess," he says.

"Oh, call me Dís," she says. Bilbo relaxes a little and takes a sip of his water. "Now what's this I hear about you starting bar brawls in the lower levels?"

Bilbo chokes on his drink. "Wha—!"

Dís laughs. "Oh, I heard it all from Dwalin!"

Doesn't Dwalin have anything else to talk about? "I didn't start anything!" Bilbo says, indignant. "One of the miners wasn't very pleased with me, that's all, and things got out of hand before I could stop the situation…"

"But what were you doing down there in the first place?" Dís asks, propping her chin on her hands. "You were with some ruby miners, weren't you? That's near the base of the mountain."

"I couldn't sleep," Bilbo says. "I wanted to see more of the mountain when there weren't so many dwarves around, but I got lost and ended up down there… The miners were kind enough to find me and invite me to drink with them."

Dís sighs. "You get into all sorts of trouble, don't you, Master Baggins?"

"I'll have you know, before I came to Erebor, I rarely had this much excitement," Bilbo says. "I lived a perfectly ordinary life, doing extremely normal things! It's you dwarves that are the cause of the trouble, not me!"

"You should take responsibility for your actions, Master Baggins."

Bilbo whirls around in his seat to find Thorin frowning down at him. Like his sister, he's dressed in blue—it looks good on him, Bilbo acknowledges, but his rotten personality takes away from all that. 

"It's _your_ dwarves that have used me as an alibi and an excuse for a brawl!" Bilbo insists, bristling a little. "It's not like I went looking for trouble!"

"Wandering the halls in the middle of the night would suggest otherwise," Thorin says, raising his eyebrows. "Unless you were snooping around for another reason…?"

Bilbo's jaw tightens. "I wasn't spying, if that's what you're implying," he snaps. "What kind of lowlife, dishonorable miscreant do you take me for, Your Highness?"

Thorin glares at him. "It's an understandable question," he says. "After all, what other reason would you need for exploring without any dwarves around? What were you hoping to see?"

Bilbo looks at Thorin then looks back at Dís, who watches their conversation with great interest. "Are all dwarves this rude?" he asks her, completely aghast. "Or does your brother just not know the meaning of 'sociable'?"

Dís' eyes light up with humor and Bilbo's pretty sure he can hear Thorin's teeth grinding from his seat. "My brother has the unique privilege of being the rudest and most unsociable dwarf I know," Dís says. "You'll have to excuse his behavior, Master Hobbit—he has trouble trusting the true motives of others."

"Well then," Bilbo says, turning back to face Thorin. "Let me be clear—my only desire is to see this treaty finalized and our peoples allied. I'm not spying on you and I have no desire to." He decides not to mention the fact that Isengrim has set Esme to this exact purpose—Thorin doesn't need his paranoid suppositions confirmed, and it's not like Esme is spying to spread information to dwarven enemies. "Now, since I'm done here, shall we go up to the negotiation chambers? I believe it's almost time to begin."

Bilbo stands and offers a bow to Dís. "It was a pleasure to speak with you, Princess."

"Just call me Dís, Bilbo Baggins," she says, smiling up at him. "And good luck today. With my brother, I think you'll need it."

"I have no doubt," Bilbo says, and marches out of the room, Thorin stomping at his heels.

* * *

Thorin's got a headache the size of one small hobbit.

"And _why_ is the land we've specifically set aside for growing not acceptable?" he asks, rubbing at his head.

Across the table, Bilbo Baggins gives him a look like he's a dwarfling who just tried to eat mercury. 

"Until we've had a chance to look at the land for ourselves and begin the growing process, we can't _bloody tell_ which land is going to grow the best," he says, every word enunciated clearly. "You can't just pick some land and tell us that _this_ is going to be the place for all the bloody potatoes—what if it doesn't have the right soil for potatoes? What if it's a piece of land too badly damaged to be recovered? What if growing potatoes on it will be twice as bloody hard as this _other_ piece of land that's more suitable?"

Why is this Mahal-damned hobbit so hung up on potatoes? "I really don't think—"

"Instead of just settling it all for yourselves," Baggins continues, voice rising, "why don't you let us do our _Eru-damned_ jobs and butt the hell out!"

Thorin stares at him. Gandalf, at the head of the table, has a sudden, inexplicable coughing fit.

"You little disrespectful—!"

"You rude, arrogant—!"

"Now, now," Gandalf says, having recovered. "Remember this is a peaceful negotiation, my friends. Thorin, I think what Bilbo says has some merit—can we allow the hobbits to choose the area where they'll farm?"

Thorin bites the inside of his cheek. He can allow the hobbits to choose their land, but part of him thinks it'll set a dangerous precedent. He's wary of letting the hobbits have their way _too_ much, considering the power they'll wield over Erebor once the crops start coming in and they control the food source.

"How is he supposed to choose the land when his people won't even come here until after the treaty is finished?" he asks, grasping for pebbles.

Baggins sighs. "Hamfast is a skilled gardener," he says. "He's been scouting the land with your sister since we arrived—I'll invite him to join us tomorrow, and we can see what land seems the most promising. I trust his judgement implicitly in this matter."

Thorin frowns. "Very well," he says, because he can't think of a reason to deny this. "We'll set that aside for later, then. Now, as to the matter of the overseer—"

Baggins straightens in his chair. "It will be a hobbit," he says. "No dwarves."

"You will be making food for dwarves!" Thorin exclaims. "There should be a dwarven overseer!"

Baggins' lips flatten, eyes going sharp, and for a moment, Thorin can see the hobbit who killed four orcs on his own. 

"We aren't your servants, Prince Thorin," he says. "We are our own people—and we have our pride too. We will manage ourselves. If the dwarves want to find work in the fields, we will be happy for the help, but I will refuse any dwarven overseer and I will not budge on this matter."

Thorin grits his teeth. "You ask too much of us," he says. "Perhaps if our people had been long friends, we could give this to you. But you are unknown to us, though Gandalf vouches for you. Your help, we've asked for because we have little love for elves and there is no one else who knows how the land works. But just because you are our only choice doesn't make us friends, Master Hobbit. It doesn't mean we trust you."

Baggins leans forward in his chair, eyes gleaming. "You think we'll betray you," he says. "You really think we've traveled all this way only to take your land for ourselves? To deny you the food and crops of your own home?"

"The only friend to a dwarf is a dwarf," Thorin says. "The other races, even the men of Dale, would turn their backs on us, given half the chance."

Baggins leans back again, regarding him closely. Then, to Thorin's astonishment, he laughs. The sound is high, sweet, clear as a crystal bell. For a moment, stuck on the crinkle around Baggins' eyes and that pure sound, Thorin is too stunned to breathe.

"Do you think hobbits don't know what the feels like, Thorin?" Baggins says. Something shivers in Thorin's stomach to hear his name without title on Baggins' lips. "We have relied on ourselves since we were grown from the earth—when our ancient home was destroyed, our people cast out to wander, none of the Big Folk helped us." Baggins' eyes burn, their ferocity surprising Thorin and giving him an odd feeling in his chest. "We were abandoned by all, left to wander Middle Earth until the Valar gifted us with our new home—the Shire. Since then, we learned that Big Folk were not to be trusted. But dwarves are not Big Folk, Master Thorin—in you and your people, I hope that we can find trust, alliance, mutual understanding."

Thorin's staring, he knows, but finds that he can't stop. The Bilbo Baggins he's known over this short period of time has been curious, irritable, a pain in Thorin's ass—but this hobbit sitting before him is clear-eyed as a hunting hawk. Thorin understands, suddenly, why the Thain insisted on Baggins being the voice for his people. 

"If you can't trust us," Baggins continues. "I suppose that's something we'll have to work on. But your mistrust doesn't mean that we will give up our pride, Master Thorin. After all, we're giving up our lives and our homes to help you—I do believe the least you can do in return is give us a leap of faith."

Baggins stands. Thorin watches him, unable to move, to speak. He feels like he's been pressed in amber. 

"I think we can be done for the day," Baggins says. "We'll meet tomorrow and tour the lands with Hamfast, so we can decide what to section off. Excuse me."

He hurries out, bare feet making nary a sound on the stone floor. Thorin stares at his empty chair, stunned. 

"Well, well," Balin says, sounding thoughtful. "Now there's something interesting to think about. Wouldn't you agree, Thorin?"

Thorin clears his throat. When he speaks, his voice is as hoarse as if he's been screaming. "I do indeed, Balin."

* * *

Bilbo buries his face in his hands. "I messed it all up," he says into his palms.

There's a hand gingerly patting his shoulder. "I'm sure it wasn't that bad," Adalgrim says. His voice says he wishes to be anywhere but trying to comfort his cousin, so Bilbo gives him points for not fleeing for his life. 

"It's just that Thorin is so Eru-damned frustrating!" he exclaims, looking up. "I know that we need them and I know that I should try to make everything run smoothly, but then Thorin opens his mouth and I just— _oooh_ —!"

Adalgrim grins, looking a little more comfortable now that Bilbo's angry. "I've never seen someone get under your skin so quickly Bilbo. Even Lobelia isn't this bad."

Bilbo makes a face. "Lobelia is her own brand of evil," he mutters. "Thorin's just—just—"

"Frustrating?" Adalgrim offers. 

"Quite."

"Well, it doesn't sound like you said anything too bad," Adalgrim says. "I mean, you're right, aren't you? We've never trusted anyone either, especially not Big Folk. But this alliance is meant for us to try. And we can't do that if they're going to watch our every move and report it back to the King and treat us like servants."

Bilbo grimaces. "I do see his point," he says grudgingly. "He's afraid that we'll turn on them, without someone from Erebor to watch us. But I don't want such a heavy power imbalance in this alliance…" 

He chews on his thumbnail, thinking maybe he should've stayed and discussed the matter more, or been less straightforward with his feelings. Thorin already dislikes him—what if he's made it worse somehow? And they _need_ this alliance too, oh _no_ —

Adalgrim sighs, sounding put-upon, and pulls Bilbo into a loose hug. Adalgrim is taller and broader than Bilbo, so Bilbo leans into his comforting weight and sighs. 

"You did fine, cousin," Adalgrim says. "You don't need to take so much of this on yourself, you know."

"Uncle's entrusted me with this," Bilbo mutters into Adalgrim's shoulder. "Our people _need_ this, Grim. I can't screw it up."

"Bilbo Baggins," Adalgrim says, a hint of laughter in his voice. "I've known you since you were born—on the _precise_ day you were due, by the way—and you've never screwed anything up. In fact, you've always been irritatingly good at doing the opposite, which all of our aunts and uncles never failed to point out to me every time _I_ screwed something up."

Bilbo pouts. "I've done _plenty_ of things wrong," he says, leaning out of Adalgrim's embrace so that he can look him in the face. "I—I—"

"You can't even think of one thing, can you?" Adalgrim says, his eyes dancing. "It's okay, Bilbo. Someone has to be the perfect one we all look up to and admire."

Bilbo can feel his face going red. "I am _not_ perfect—!"

"Agreed," someone says as they drape themselves over Bilbo's back. He twists around to see Esme grinning at him. "But that's only because _I'm_ perfect, and there's only room for one of us in this family. Why're you teasing Bilbo, Grimmy?"

"He was being a fusspot about negotiations," Adalgrim says.

Bilbo groans, hiding his head back in Adalgrim's shoulder. "Grim!" 

"What? You _were_! Just because you gave the prince a piece of your mind—"

"Oh? But then again, when _doesn't_ Bilbo give the prince a piece of his mind?"

"—doesn't mean you've screwed anything up," Adalgrim continues as if Esme hasn't spoken. "In fact, I'll bet you that the prince actually changes his mind!"

Bilbo leans back to gape at him. "Prince Thorin Durin, named Oakenshield?" he asks. " _Change his mind_?"

There's laughter from the door of the room and all three of them turn to see Hamfast standing there, Princess Dís at his shoulder. Bilbo flushes redder than one of his prized tomatoes. 

"Princess, I—"

"My, my," Dís says, eyes glinting. "It's only been four days and you already know my brother so well, Bilbo Baggins. That's impressive."

"I didn't mean to—"

"Oh, no," she says. "I'm sure he deserved it." She smiles at him. "I'll see you at dinner, won't I? You can tell me all about it then."

She offers a nod to Hamfast and the others before disappearing. Bilbo groans, burying his face in his hands again. Adalgrim pats his head, ruffling his hair.

"There, there, Bilbo," he says. "Look on the bright side—at least it isn't likely the King will show up to hear you insult his son."

* * *

Bilbo's walks back to their rooms alone after dinner, distracted by the problem of negotiations (and Thorin bloody Oakenshield). His family, keen to his state of mind, had left him to his own devices; all of them were well aware that Bilbo liked to think a problem out on his own, so aside from some encouraging nudges from Grim and Esme, they all let him be. Hamfast and Isengrim had disappeared up to their rooms as soon as they finished eating, intent on studying the map of Erebor Dís had lent them in order to begin a layout for farming, while Esme, Prim, and Adalgrim had all more or less wandered in their own directions—Esme and Primula, Bilbo's pretty sure, were going to scope out the mines. He'd given them the names of the ruby miners he'd met with and from the gleam in Esme's eyes and the wicked smile on Primula's face, he has a feeling they're going to be put to use.

The rooms will be nice and quiet, Bilbo thinks as he begins to open the door, already thinking of curling up with one of the books Gandalf lent him and trying to forget all this bloody business with Thorin—

Bilbo steps under the threshold and, without warning, a pail of extremely cold water falls on his head, drenching him from head to toe.

For a moment, Bilbo is too stunned to move. _What_ in the name of _the Valar_ —?

He hears light giggling behind him and turns to see two children peeking out from the end of the hallway, wearing mischievous grins. Cold, wet, and extremely aggravated, Bilbo marches over to them, but they exchange alarmed looks and make a break for it. Bilbo, incensed that the little rascals would pull a prank on him and then try to _run_ , begins to chase them. His body is still icy and his feet make a horrendously loud slapping sound against the stone floors, but he has the advantage of rage and leg strength, so he catches up to the dwarflings with little trouble. He scoops them up around their waists, one to each arm, and does his best to keep hold of them as they wriggle in his grip like eels.

"Care to explain," he says, in the low, dangerous voice he adopts whenever one of his little cousins pulls stupid stunts like this, "just _why_ I am freezing and covered in water?"

"Let me go!" the dark-haired dwarfling shouts, trying to bite Bilbo's hand. The little _demon_ —

"Fíli? Kíli! Where are you little devils?"

Bilbo frowns, looking up just as Dwalin comes around the corner.

"Where did you… go…" Dwalin takes in the sight of Bilbo with a dwarfling under each arm with raised eyebrows. "Master Baggins?"

"Would these two happen to be Fíli and Kíli?" he asks, feeling very calm. Dwalin's eyebrows go even further up.

"What did they do now?" he asks, with the resigned patience of someone who has had this very thing happen to him before. 

Bilbo lets out a sigh. The boys, upon seeing Dwalin, have stopped fussing in his grip and have gone suspiciously quiet. 

"They put a pail of water over my door," Bilbo says. He can tell that Dwalin wants to laugh, the big blighter. "As you can see, it was quite effective."

Dwalin snorts once, twice, then begins to laugh. Bilbo watches him, his irritation growing when the boys under his arms begin to giggle as well.

" _Ex_ cuse me," he says, but the effect is dampened by the way he sneezes in the middle of talking. 

"Quite effective indeed," Dwalin wheezes, recovering from his laughter bit by bit. "You look like a drenched rat, hobbit."

Bilbo's pretty sure that dwarves are, as a whole, the rudest race he's ever met. He sets the dwarflings down, assured that they won't try to run now that Dwalin's blocking their only exit. They can't be older than Ori, he thinks once he gets a good look at them—clearly brothers, even with their differing coloring, and dressed in fine clothes. He eyes them. Fíli and Kíli, hm? Where has he heard those names before…?

"Your uncle won't be pleased with you," Dwalin says, and the boys run over to his side. "Didn't you use that pail trick on the elves last time?"

"Yes!" the blond one says, beaming up at Dwalin. "We got that Legless really good!"

Dwalin cracks up again and Bilbo rolls his eyes. "Prince Legolas did say he had an interesting visit," he says. "However, since I haven't even _met_ you boys before, I would like to know why you felt it was necessary to give me a good washing."

The boys stare at him. "You make uncle angry!" the dark-haired one pipes up. "It's—what's the word, Fíli?"

"Revenge!"

"Right, ravenge!"

"No, Kíli, _re_ venge—"

"Your uncle?" Bilbo asks, nonplussed. Who could that—? He freezes, mind whirring. Fíli and Kíli. Their uncle, who Bilbo makes angry.

_Princess Dís was blessed_.

"By the _Valar_ ," Bilbo swears. "They're Dís' children?"

Dwalin smirks at him. "Bilbo Baggins, meet Fíli and Kíli, sons of Víli and Dís, heirs to the throne of Erebor." [1]

Fíli bows, giggling, while Kíli offers a wobbly curtsey. Bilbo looks from them, to Dwalin, and back, before sighing. He's cold and clammy now that the water's beginning to dry, and all of his clothes are probably ruined. But they're children, and Bilbo remembers having his own share of fun when he was a fauntling—running with Took cousins made Bilbo a little wilder than a normal Baggins child, after all.

He squats down to their level. "You were just trying to help your uncle, huh?"

Kíli grins. "Yeah! He yells about you a lot!"

Dwalin snorts and Bilbo shoots him a look, though he doesn't move from his crouched position. "Well, I suppose you got me back fair and square. How about a deal?"

Fili eyes him, clearly suspicious, but Kíli smiles. "Sure!"

"Kíli!" Fíli says, slapping the back of his head. "Don't just agree! What _kind_ of deal?" he adds to Bilbo, eyes narrowing. When he does that, he looks so like his uncle that Bilbo's surprised he didn't realize they were related to Thorin sooner. 

"Well," Bilbo says. "If I do my best not to make your uncle angry anymore, will you promise not to put buckets of water over my door anymore?"

The boys consider it—Kíli clearly only doing so because Fíli is—and then nod, almost as one unit. 

"But you have to _really_ try," Fíli capitulates. "Uncle Thorin's no fun when he's mad. He just sits in front of the fire and growls a lot."

Bilbo bites the inside of his cheek so he doesn't laugh at the thought. Instead, he solemnly offers his pinky. He frowns when both of the boys stare at it like they've never seen a pinky before.

"What're you doing?" Kíli asks.

"Sealing our deal," Bilbo says. "It's a pinky-swear."

The boys stare at him.

"You link pinkies," Bilbo explains, reaching forward to catch Fíli's hand to demonstrate. Fíli's hand is tiny next to his and Bilbo feels an inexplicable burst of warmth—they may have just drenched him from head to toe, but they're pretty cute, he thinks. "It's how hobbits seal their deals. This means you can't break your promise."

"Or what?" Fíli demands to know, withdrawing his pinky. Kíli offers up his own enthusiastically. 

"Or you get bad luck," Bilbo improvises. He's not sure what actually happens if you go back on a pinky-swear, but he's not about to tell the boys that.

"What kind of bad luck?" Dwalin asks, and Bilbo looks up in surprise. He'd nearly forgotten Dwalin was there.

"Oh, the normal sort," Bilbo says. "You never get dessert and always have to attend lessons, even when it's really sunny outside." Surely even dwarflings would be cowed at the thought of things like that?

"No fun," Kíli says and when Fíli nods in agreement, Bilbo nearly sighs in relief.

"There, you see? Now that we've all sworn, we absolutely can't go back. So I'll try to make Thorin less angry and you'll stop taking revenge on his behalf. Okay?"

"Okay!"

"Okay!"

Dwalin grunts. "Come on, boys," he says, putting a giant hand on each of their shoulders. "Time for bed, I think. Say sorry to Master Baggins."

Kíli slips out from under Dwalin's hand and gives Bilbo a quick, informal hug. "Sorry, Mister Boggins! But it was really funny!"

Fíli nods. "Really, _really_ funny!" 

They giggle and then, to Bilbo's astonishment, slip around Dwalin and take off running. "It's Baggins!" he calls out after them, rising to his feet. To Dwalin, he adds, "You're just letting them go?"

"Glóin's a few halls down," Dwalin says, untroubled. "He'll catch them. He's got a little one of his own, he knows how to do it."

"I see." Bilbo sighs, shivering a little. "I'd better go take a bath and change, I think."

Bilbo gets a glimpse of Dwalin's teeth through the black bush of his beard. "Aye. I think that would be a good idea, Master Baggins."

* * *

It's a combination of the day's events that does it—the quarrel with Thorin, the stress of his worry afterwards, the shock of the cold water and chasing the pranksters… Well, Bilbo's exhausted. And the water's just so _warm_ —some sort of magic deep in the earth keeps it forever heated—and it feels so good on his tense muscles, especially after his unexpected soak. Bilbo relaxes, then relaxes some more, and finds himself relaxed into a light slumber.

He's not sure how long he's asleep—head pillowed on the edge of the tub, neck bent back in an uncomfortable position, body drifting in the water—when the door to his bathroom bangs open with a crack, startling him awake. He sputters, trying to get to his feet, heart hammering in his chest—and turns to meet the shocked gaze of Thorin bloody Oakenshield.

There's a long pause.

"Excuse me," Bilbo says, because he has literally _no bloody idea what's going on_. 

Thorin stares at him and doesn't say a word. Bilbo allows for a polite moment to see if he's actually going to say anything before he clears his throat.

"Excuse. Me."

Thorin jerks and then, to Bilbo's astonishment, flushes the deepest, brightest red Bilbo's ever seen on another person, whirling around on his heel to face the wall.

"I beg pardon," he starts, words tripping over themselves so fast that Bilbo can barely make them out. "It's only, Dwalin told me what Fíli and Kíli did, so I came to apologize on their behalf, but there was no answer so I assumed something was wrong—"

"I was in the bath," Bilbo says, and almost immediately has the urge to knock himself over the head. _Obviously_ he was in the bath, what is he _saying_ —

"My deepest apologies," Thorin continues to stammer on as if Bilbo hasn't spoken. "I should never have presumed to enter your chambers without your permission, especially your bath."

Bilbo takes a deep breath and consciously doesn't think about how very naked he is. "Apology accepted," he says. 

He waits. Thorin doesn't move.

"Did you have anything else to say?" he asks through gritted teeth.

There's a long pause. "About this afternoon," Thorin begins, uncharacteristically cautious. "I wanted to speak with you."

"And I don't suppose it can wait until tomorrow?"

"I'd prefer not."

Bilbo sighs. "Go and wait in the living quarters," he instructs.

"Go and—?"

"So I can _bloody change_ ," he hisses, giving into his embarrassment. "I won't have a serious conversation with you stark naked!"

Thorin glances over his shoulder. He's still red-faced, though the blush has begun to fade. There's something so oddly appraising in his gaze that Bilbo finds _he's_ beginning to flush. What in the name of the Valar—?

"Go!" he half-yells, and Thorin, for once in the short time they've known each other, scampers to obey. 

Bilbo waits until he's sure Thorin's out in the living area before he allows himself to bury his face in his hands. It's official, he thinks. The Durin line will be the _death_ of him. Resigned, he climbs out of the bath and prepares to get dressed.

* * *

Thorin takes several steady breaths as he sits down on the couch in front of the fire, determinedly _not_ thinking about what Bilbo Baggins is doing in his bedroom at this very moment. Not thinking about the way his hair curled around those odd ears, the flush of his cheeks, the hints of pale, smooth body Thorin could see through the water. 

When Dwalin came by his rooms, chortling about a prank Fíli and Kíli had played on Baggins, Thorin had been furious. As much as he loves his nephews, attacking a visiting diplomat—even one as irritating as Bilbo Baggins—could be disastrous. He gave them a stern lecture, then immediately departed for the hobbit rooms so he could offer Baggins an apology. 

Dwalin had said that Baggins had retired to his rooms, so when there wasn't any answer to his knocking, Thorin grew concerned. In the heart of Erebor, it was unlikely that anything could really happen to Baggins… Though he remembered Glóin's report on the bar brawl that Baggins had been involved with—apparently some of his people had a grudge against the hobbit. Thorin tried the door and, upon finding it open, hurried inside. He might've left when he saw the darkened living room, if he hadn't heard a noise from inside one of the bedrooms—following it blindly, he had rushed straight into Bilbo Baggins, asleep in his bath. 

Thorin resists the urge to smack himself over the head, sure that Dís will do it for him later when he tells her what happened. He came to apologize and just made the entire situation that much worse—

Thorin looks up when the doors open and feels a flush climbing up his neck as Baggins comes out in a dressing gown, hair still damp. All of the hobbits wear more clothing than any dwarf—neckties and little vests and whatnot—so this is the least dressed Thorin's seen Baggins, aside from when he'd been in the bath—

Thorin hastily stamps that thought away.

"I apologize again," he says, trying to keep his voice even.

Baggins takes a seat in one of the armchairs. As he sits, the collar of his dressing gown gapes a little, revealing sharp collarbones. 

"It's not a problem," Baggins says. "Actually, you may have saved me some embarrassment—it would've been a pretty terrible way to go, drowning in my bath."

"My nephews—"

"—are children who wanted to help their uncle," Baggins cuts in, smiling a little. "I come from a family of pranksters, Master Oakenshield. It's not the first pail of water that's been dumped on my head—I daresay it won't be the last, either."

Thorin relaxes a little. He hadn't expected Baggins to be so understanding; in almost all of their conversations, he'd been a confrontational, contrary pain in the ass. It's surprisingly nice to have Baggins work with him, instead of against him.

"About this afternoon, then," he says. Baggins leans forward, dark eyes intent on Thorin's face. He doesn't notice the way his dressing gown gapes just a little bit wider. "I wanted to… apologize. For any harm my presumptions may have caused."

Baggins stares at him for a long moment, then grins. "That sounded like it hurt."

"You have come a long way to meet with us," Thorin continues. "And we— _I_ —have treated you with… suspicion and disrespect."

"It's not that I don't understand your point of view, Thorin," Baggins says. Thorin feels an odd tingling up his spine as Baggins uses his first name. "But this isn't a conquest—it's a negotiation. There has to be give _and_ take—both ways."

Thorin smiles, a little rueful. "I have no doubt that if I try to take more than I give, you'll set me straight, Master Baggins."

Baggins grins at him again. "Your instincts are correct, Master Oakenshield." He stands then, and offers Thorin his hand. "I hope we can work together more peacefully from here on out?"

Thorin takes Baggins' hand in his; it is much smaller than his, but the palms are harder than he'd expected. Baggins may not have a dwarf's stout body, but he clearly is used to hard work. 

"I believe that is possible," Thorin says and drags his hand away. "I'll meet you tomorrow, in the chambers?"

"I'm bringing Hamfast with me," Baggins says. "We'll take a trip outside to see the lay of the land and we can move forward from there, I think."

Thorin inclines his head in agreement. "Very well. Until tomorrow, Master Baggins."

He moves to the door without waiting for an answer—but as he opens it and steps outside, he hears, "Goodnight, Master Oakenshield." 

Thorin closes the door behind him and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] i don't know that we ever get a canon name for fíli and kíli's father, so i made one up. víli is still alive - he'll pop up in a few chapters, with an explanation for why he's been missing all this time.


	5. Orcs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves* ....hi?
> 
> sorry it's been SO LONG since my last update. i've had a busier summer than i originally planned and my writing strayed from hobbit fandom into others, so i've also been distracted. however, this story is definitely still going forward! i'm hoping to update more regularly now that i've recaptured my inspiration for this fic. 
> 
> once again, thank you for all the kudos and comments! your support really means the world to me!

Thorin waits outside the negotiating chambers and resists the urge to pace. He's _not_ nervous. He has absolutely no reason to be. Even if he _is_ going to spend the day with the infuriating Bilbo Baggins, who he just so happened to see completely stark naked not all of twelve hours ago—

Thorin shoves that thought away just as two small bodies come around the corner. As always, Thorin's amazed by their lack of sound; except for when they're trying deliberately, hobbits seem to move as quietly as mice on their bare feet. To dwarves who, due to a combination of heavy boots and stout body, tend to clomp around, their lightfootedness is almost uncanny. 

"Good morning," Baggins says. 

With him is one of the other hobbits—the gardener Dís has become fond of, if Thorin's right. He's older than Baggins, with a dark red mop of hair and bright brown eyes. He has the ruddy, freckled skin of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors.

"Master Oakenshield, this is Hamfast Gamgee," Baggins says. "He's the best gardener in all of the Shire."

The ruddy skin gets even darker. "Master Bilbo," Hamfast mutters. "Stop it. You're embarrassing me."

Baggins smiles at him. Thorin's rarely seen Baggins smile; he's offered some wry grins during the past few days, but nothing approaching genuine warmth. The sight of that small, shy curl of his mouth is oddly arresting; Thorin finds that he can't really look away from it, or even speak.

"Are we waiting for anyone else?" Baggins asks, turning back to Thorin. The smile disappears.

"Just our guard," Thorin says. "But they'll meet us at the gates. Dís was going to come, but there was some kind of emergency down in the mines that she had to take care of…"

Baggins' body straightens. "In the mines?" he asks with concern. "What happened?"

Didn't Dwalin say Baggins had befriended some of the miners he'd been out drinking with?

"A collapse in our emerald mines," he explains. Baggins relaxes a little. "Nobody's been killed, but there are some injuries. Dís went to oversee evacuation and to see if any of it could be salvaged before we move on."

They begin to make their way down to the base of the mountain. Baggins and Gamgee are both shorter than Thorin, but they keep up well enough—Thorin only has to shorten his stride a little to make sure that they aren't running after him. 

"Isn't that unusual?" Baggins asks after they've walked in silence for a few minutes.

Thorin frowns. "Unusual?" 

"I mean—she's royalty, isn't she? Isn't it strange for her to go down and get in the middle of all that?"

Thorin's frown deepens. He wonders if hobbits share the same sort of strange hang-ups about females that men do—that they aren't just as capable as males, or that they need to be protected and sheltered. But Baggins and the others hadn't seemed to treat their females in a different way…

"Dís' mastery is in emeralds," he says. "She spends a lot of time in the mines, so she's come to know the miners there very well."

Baggins blinks. "Oh," he says. "But I thought your family didn't really… mingle with the common folk?"

"Where did you get that idea?"

Baggins bites his lip. "Uh. D'you know Nori?"

Thorin keeps himself from rolling his eyes out of sheer force of will. 

"What did Nori say?" _And why in Mahal's name would you even listen to him?_

"Not him, his older brother. Well. They both, uh, implied that the royalty didn't… mingle much."

They take a few more turns down before Thorin can think of a reply. It's not that it's _untrue_. In fact, during Thror's reign, Thorin and his siblings would never have eaten down in the Hall, where everyone from miners to guild heads ate together in common. Thorin hadn't even _spoken_ to a miner on his own before the last year. It was only after his grandfather died and his father took over that they began to incorporate themselves back into the normal flow of the mountain.

"My grandfather had a strict idea of the boundaries between royalty and commoners," he says finally, aware that Baggins has been watching him closely as he's thought over his reply. "My father is… not as strict."

Baggins hums. "Y'know," he says, "Dori mentioned that your grandfather died quite mysteriously before Smaug's attack…" Though his tone is casual, his eyes are sharp. 

Thorin carefully keeps all emotion from his face. He's had a good year of practice at fielding this question, though it has come less and less as the months have gone by. 

"An illness," he says, voice even. "It came upon him quite suddenly, but he was growing old. We believe it was a fever of some sort… within days, he passed. It was all very sudden."

Baggins offers a soft apology, but his thoughtful face bothers Thorin all the way to the entrance of the mountain. Most of the commonfolk had accepted that story well enough—Thror had been reclusive during his last months of life, and while nobody knew the true reason, it wasn't a stretch to imagine he might've been giving in to the frailty of old age. A bit of illness at that weak period of life… well, dwarves were made stout, but even the hardiest of bodies failed in old age. 

But Baggins doesn't revisit the topic again as they step out into the fresh air and find Bifur waiting for them, so Thorin lets it go. Perhaps he's overthinking it… Baggins has proven to be a curious being, but there's no reason to believe that his curiosity hasn't been satisfied. 

Thorin puts it out of his mind.

* * *

Well. The royal family is _definitely_ hiding something.

Bilbo wanders behind as Thorin, Bifur, and Hamfast walk together, speaking about a stretch of land at the outer edge of Erebor's borders that still has some grass on it. He listens with half an ear, ready to jump into the conversation if any of them try to call on him, but his mind is still chewing on the expression on Thorin's face when Bilbo asked about his grandfather.

Bilbo hadn't thought much about Dori's odd dithering around Thrór's death, and he'd asked more out of politeness than anything else. But Thorin's _face_ —his expression had frozen, just for a second, before it smoothed over into a professional mask that would've made an elf jealous. Bilbo's only known Thorin for a few days, but even _he_ knows that's not a natural response. He looked like Belladonna Baggins did when she parried off questions and inquiries from the busybodies in Hobbiton—biting back anything unpleasant and disturbing simply to get them off her back.

His story wasn't _unbelievable_. But there was still an echo of dishonesty about it, and Bilbo couldn't help picking that up. He's not sure if he should be suspicious of _Thorin_ , but… well, he clearly knows _something_.

Bilbo's been called many things in his life, and curious as a cat with a death wish has always been one of the first.

His head jerks up when Hamfast calls his name. He realizes that they've made it to what is possibly the last patch of clean, green grass around Erebor for miles.

"I was telling the Prince this would be a good place to start," Hamfast says to Bilbo. "Next spring, we could start with some simple vegetables, see how they take… The area around here has the most livable soil, so we might as well branch out from it."

Bilbo frowns as he surveys the land. "It's quite far from the river," he observes.

Hamfast grimaces. "I know," he says mournfully. "We can start on the irrigation system before soil has a chance to harden up during the winter… then finish it off by early spring, I hope."

"Irrigation system?" Thorin butts in, his brow furrowed. "What is that?"

Hamfast and Bilbo exchange looks. Imagine, building an entire palace in a mountain, but not knowing about irrigation! 

"It's sort of like tunnels in the soil," Bilbo explains to Thorin. "We burrow them from the nearest water source, so that we can plant even when we're far from the river's edge."

Their guard, a stout dwarf named Bifur, stares at them. "You can do such a thing?" he asks, flummoxed.

Hamfast's chest puffs out in pride. "Hobbits _invented_ it!" he exclaims. "Some of our farmlands are quite far from the Brandywine, y'see, and we were losing crops, so old Branwen Brandybuck…"

Bilbo tunes out the story, though he bites his cheek to keep from snickering as Thorin and Bifur listen to the entire story of Bella Brandybuck with an increasingly desperate expression. In fact, Bilbo's so amused and distracted by Thorin's expression that it takes him a moment to register the sound of a distant bugle on the wind. His head snaps up—a moment later, so do Thorin and Bifur's, all dismay bleeding from their faces.

"That's—!"

"Orcs," Thorin finishes grimly.

His hand goes to his waist. Bifur already has his axe out, eyes narrow as he sidles in front of Hamfast. 

"We should leave, my prince," he says to Thorin. "That horn was too close for comfort."

Indeed, the horn itself couldn't have been more than a few miles off—nothing to orcs on the backs of wargs. Bilbo draws Sting and grasps it tightly in his right hand. At his shoulder Thorin glances down at the little blade, but doesn't make any sort of comment, thank goodness. If they are about to be set upon by orcs, they don't have time for Bilbo to wallop Thorin over the head for dismissing his blade.

"How fast can you run?" he asks Hamfast and Bilbo instead.

Hamfast's white in the face, but his voice is steady as he says, "Fast enough. Our legs aren't as long, but we're lighter than you lot."

Bilbo nods. "We can keep up," he agrees. "But this is so far out from the mountain—"

"We'll do what we can," Thorin says grimly. "Dwalin knows we're out today, and the guard will have heard that bugle sound. If we don't make it in time, we'll have backup."

Bilbo relaxes a little. He hadn't really thought they'd be left to fend for themselves, but it _is_ comforting to think of Dwalin coming to their rescue. Bilbo can't imagine any orcs surviving Dwalin and his axes.

"We'd better get moving," Bifur says again.

They start off at a light run, but once the two dwarves see that the hobbits keep up with them easily, their pace quickens until they're all at an out-right sprint. The mountain is huge, but it seems desperately far away. Bilbo had been distracted on their walk out, but he realizes now just how far they'd come; it'll take at least ten minutes to make it back to the mountain, even at this pace. 

He glances over his shoulder and a spark goes up his spine when he catches sight of black shapes gaining on them. 

"Wargs!" he yells. 

To his surprise, both Bifur and Thorin skid to a halt—Hamfast runs straight into Bifur's broad back, and would've bounced off of him and to the ground if Bilbo hadn't caught him around the elbow. 

"What're you doing?" Bilbo demands. "We might be able to make it!"

"We can't allow the orcs to get close to Erebor," Thorin declares, face grim. He's already drawn his axe again. "I wasn't sure they'd follow us, but since they're on the hunt… No, we can't allow them to come with us. We'll be damned for sure if they do."

"Damned—? Oh." Bilbo groans. "Oh, _Eru_. If we bring them up to the gates, they won't be able to let us in! Or let anyone out to help us, without risking the orcs storming the entrance. Gorram motherfuckin' son of a hoor—!"

Thorin, to Bilbo's surprise, chokes on a laugh. It isn't until he glances over and sees Hamfast and Bifur grinning at him—Hamfast red around the ears, but giving Bilbo a sly wink as their gazes meet—that he realizes it must be because of his language. He huffs. 

"This is hardly the time!" he says to Thorin.

"On the contrary, Master Hobbit," Thorin says, mirth still in his eyes. "If we're going to die by orc hands, I'm thankful that at least I managed to hear some filthy curses from such a prim and proper little thing such as yourself."

Bilbo puffs up. "Well I—!"

Another bugle sounds. Bilbo shudders; the sound rings in his bones, it's so close. Thorin's face closes off. 

"Master Gamgee, do you have a weapon?" he asks.

"No," Hamfast admits. He's gone pale again. "Always afraid I'd poke my own eye out with one, y'see."

Thorin draws something from his boot and hands it over. It's a knife—smaller even than Sting, but with a sharp edge and a ruby in the hilt. Hamfast takes it as delicately as he might handle a poisonous snake.

"Try not to poke your eye out with that," Thorin says. "Stay close to Bifur. Master Baggins, you're with me. Try not to get yourself killed."

Bilbo frowns at him and settles in at his shoulder. He'd much rather be protecting Hamfast, but it's true enough that Bifur—who is big, burly, and experienced in war—probably has the better chance of keeping Hamfast alive. 

"I will if you will, Master Oakenshield," Bilbo says. Thorin scoffs.

The shapes have become clear during their conversation—a group of about eight riders, all orcs on shaggy wargs. They clearly have Bilbo's groups in their sights. As they approach, Bilbo can hear their war cries, screaming howls of triumph and bloodlust. His hand tightens on Sting. Only eight; more than he'd hoped for, but less than he'd feared. With four of them (even Hamfast, with his little knife) they might stand a chance. And if they could get backup from the mountain…

"Look at the tiny mice, brothers!" one of the orcs cries out in Westron as they approach.

The wargs smell terrible—Bilbo gags on the putrid scent of blood and filth as they're surrounded by huge, hairy bodies. The orcs perched atop them are hardly better, in looks or smell; they are covered in mud and blood, but they all grin as they stare down at their prey. 

"Little dwarves," another orc warbles, horribly off-key. "What do you think you're doing way out here?"

"This is dwarf land," Thorin spits out.

The orcs all cackle as a group. 

"The little person has airs!" another orc says. "Thinks mighty big of himself, doesn't he? Got all those fine things… Are you a little lordling, dwarf?"

Thorin snarls. He looks two seconds away from launching himself at the nearest warg.

"I didn't realize orcs were all talk," Bilbo says. 

His hand tightens on his knife as every single orc turns to look at him, but he lifts his chin. He's bested trolls and out-run goblins and killed orcs before—they are tall and terrifying on their wargs, but he is a Baggins of Bag-End and Belladonna Took's son.

"Or do you think you can just insult us to death?"

The orcs don't look like they know what to do with enemies that talk back to them. Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo notices that Bifur's gone wide-eyed and open-mouthed, though Hamfast just looks resigned. 

One of the orcs jumps forward and Bilbo flinches back even as his knife comes up in a defensive position. It's unnecessary though—the moment the orc moves, there's a solid body between it and Bilbo; Thorin, with his axe at the ready.

"These are dwarf lands," he says. "If you leave now, you may live."

The orcs all laugh, a harsh sound that grates against Bilbo's ears. He looks over his shoulder at the mountain, still so far away—will Dwalin and the others even be able to reach them in time? It's barely been ten minutes since they heard the bugle call, and there's no evidence of any movement from the mountain. Bilbo has faith in Thorin and Bifur, and some regard for his own abilities and Hamfast's hardiness, but he's still not sure that they can handle all of these orcs alone. 

"We will kill you and mount your heads for all of Erebor to see," the orc says. "It will be a lesson to small people who fight their betters."

Thorin launches himself forward before the orc's even finished talking, chopping at the legs of its warg. The warg howls as it goes down in a heap of legs and blood—and the battle is upon them.

Bilbo ducks as a spear whistles over his head, tumbling in a somersault and coming up with Sting at the ready. He swipes at the legs of a charging warg, stabs the side of another, and ducks as a sword comes at his head. Hobbits don't have the berserker blood of men or dwarves, and Bilbo finds no joy in the senseless mess of fighting—his heart throbs against his chest as he ducks and weaves, stabs and slices. 

He barely has a chance to look over for his companions, but when he does, he sees just glimpses: Bifur yelling as he crushes the skull of an orc with his mallet, Hamfast's white face and wide eyes, Thorin's hair streaming as he lunges forward. 

There are too many of them, Bilbo thinks and he stabs Sting into an orc's foot and hears it howl, and too few of us. The wargs are enemies in their own right, with tough hide and a deadly bite—counting them, the orcs numbers are twenty, and Bilbo's little group is only four. Three even, because Bilbo glances over to see Hamfast trying and failing to stab anyone with his little knife. 

Bilbo grimaces when a spear swipes his arm, but manages to duck before it can come back to get him through the chest, ignoring the fire burning up his body at the cut. The orc leers at him and lunges again—Bilbo ducks aside and forward. The look of surprise on the orc's face when Sting stabs him in the chest could almost be comical. Bilbo heaves to get his sword back as the corpse begins to crumple and turns on his heel. 

His heart stops. 

Thorin is locked in battle with two orcs, who surround him. All three of them are bleeding freely, but Thorin has a heavy head wound that's matted down his hair. The orcs look worse for wear, but Bilbo knows the effects of a hard head wound—he himself suffered from one or two during his childhood, and just walking afterward could become a struggle, let alone fighting for your life. Bifur is engaged in his own battle, protecting Hamfast at the same time, so Bilbo starts forward, intent to cover Thorin's back and hopefully even the odds. It's when he's nearly to Thorin that he notices the third orc, sneaking up on Thorin's blind spot. 

Bilbo breaks into a run.

"Thorin!" he yells. "Behind you!"

In the chaos, Bilbo's voice is lost. The orc sneaks up on Thorin slowly, careful not to catch his eye with some small movement. In his hand, he holds a wickedly curved sword, with an edge that gleams. Thorin isn't wearing armor, Bilbo thinks, running faster. If the orc gets close enough, all he has to do is stab him through the back. All the orc needs is one good moment. 

So all Bilbo needs to do is ruin it.

He lunges forward just as the orc gets close enough to stab. The moment seems to stretch on forever—Bilbo has the time to thank hobbit invisibility for keeping him out of the orc's sight until the exact right moment. He also has the time to appreciate the burning pain spreading out from where the orc's sword is stuck in his shoulder.

"Ow," he mutters, sliding to his knees. "Oh _Yavanna_ —"

"Baggins? Baggins!"

Everything is going dark around the edges. Bilbo blinks up at Thorin's worried face, covered in blood and muck, and smiles. 

Well. At least he did something good. Maybe this will make up for insulting Thorin all the time.

"Baggins—!"

Everything goes black.

* * *

Bilbo wakes to pain, and Primula's face hovering over his.

"Oh!" she says, sounding pleased. "Grim! Uncle Isengrim! Esme, Hamfast! He's awake!"

Bilbo blinks at her, disoriented. Within minutes, he's surrounded on all sides by his family. He frowns at their wan faces—Esme looks pinched at the edges, Hamfast and Adalgrim look like they spent a long time crying, and Isengrim looks like he aged ten years. When they see Bilbo staring up at them, they all relax a little.

"Bilbo, my boy," Isengrim says, touching Bilbo's forehead tenderly. "Don't do that ever again."

Bilbo's brow wrinkles. He feel like he _should_ remember what's happened, since obviously _something_ has, but—

Adalgrim clutches Bilbo's hand. "I can't _believe_ you," he says, in the whisper-shout he always uses when he's actually angry about something—which almost never happens. "You went and got yourself stabbed, and for that no-good prince—!"

"Grim!" Primula says, glaring.

_Oh._

That's right. They'd gone to see the green fields, the orcs had come upon them… Bilbo's heart jumps to his throat. Hamfast is obviously fine, but—

"Bifur?" he demands, his voice hoarse. "Thorin?!"

"They're both fine," Hamfast says. He smiles down at Bilbo, but there's something watery about it, like he's on the edge of crying. "After you saved Prince Thorin's life, he went a little…" He frowns. "Well, mad, I guess. Finished off all the rest almost by himself, then carried you back to the mountain."

Bilbo stares.

"He _carried_ me?" he asks, incredulous.

"Bifur said he'd gone berserker," Hamfast says. "He brought you back and demanded the best doctors they could find. They were fine for a day or so, but then they found out that the blade had been poisoned…"

"A day?!" Bilbo asks, alarmed. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Almost a week, Master Hobbit," Gandalf says, appearing at Isengrim's shoulder. He also looks like he's aged, but he smiles down at Bilbo gently. "Welcome back."

"A _week_?"

"The blade had been poisoned," Gandalf says. "You were fortunate that it missed your bones and made a clean entry through the muscles of your arm, but it took some time to extract the poison from your system. I made use of some of the elves from Greenwood, generously supplied by Thranduil."

Bilbo was so, so confused.

"Thranduil sent healers?" he asks. "But—"

"No, Bilbo," Gandalf says. His smile goes a little sly. "Prince Thorin asked Thranduil to send healers."

Bilbo stares.

"Prince Thorin," he says slowly. "The same prince who openly hates Greenwood and despises Thranduil? That Thorin?"

Primula giggles. "You should've seen him, Bilbo," she says. "When Gandalf told him that we needed the elves assistance or you might not make it!"

"Was it truly so dire?" 

"Yes!" Adalgrim says. He hasn't let go of Bilbo's hand this whole time, and his fingers are starting to go numb. "Which is why it was a damned foolish thing to do, leaping into the middle of it like that!"

"I had to," Bilbo says. "Thorin would've been killed otherwise."

"Oh, yes," Isengrim says. "And he knows it, too. That boy has been beside himself trying to get you healed, Bilbo."

This is all so strange. The Thorin Bilbo's known for the short amount of time they've been at Erebor wouldn't give two licks of a rabbit's tail about whether or not Bilbo was alive. In fact, there were many times where Bilbo was sure that Thorin would prefer him dead! And yet, his family tells him that Thorin's been upset over his injury, that he summoned _elves_ to heal it, that he carried Bilbo back to the mountain himself…

It's too much to take in.

"Can I get some water?" he asks plaintively, and watches with amusement as six hands struggle to be the one to give it to him.

Mother hens, the lot of them.

* * *

Bilbo's wounds have healed well, according to Gandalf and the two elven healers who come in to assess him, but he's still ordered to spend a few more days in bed before he tries anything more strenuous. Bilbo chafes at the necessity of being in bed any longer—now that he's awake, he wants to _move_ , he wants to _do something_ —but he's also not stupid enough to damage his body any further, and he knows that the elves and Gandalf only have his best interests at heart. 

It's odd, but the elves look at him strangely during while they check and re-bandage his shoulder. Their stares aren't hostile, or even remotely negative, but their fixed attention makes Bilbo uncomfortable nonetheless. It's like they can't quite seem to know what to make of him—and when Bilbo complains about this to Gandalf after they leave, the old wizard merely laughs at him.

"They're curious," Gandalf tells him. "From an elf, that's quite a compliment, my dear boy. They want to know what kind of creature makes someone like Thorin Oakenshield bend his proud neck."

Bilbo blushes at that, quite unintentionally, and Gandalf leaves the room still laughing. The old coot.

Bilbo, perhaps because he's spent so long sleeping, can't bring himself to drift off even after being left alone. His family, assured in his health and recuperation, were finally coaxed into going down to the Hall for a meal. Bilbo doesn't really miss them—Hobbits are always overbearing when someone falls ill or gets injured, as it happens so rarely to them that it sets them off in something of a tizzy—but it is a little lonely in his room. 

Bilbo's actually drifting toward something like sleep when he hears the door creak open. He doesn't open his eyes, assuming that it must be one of his party or the elven healers. It isn't until he hears the heavy clomp of boots—completely unlike a Hobbit's silent feet or the light tread of the elves—that he realizes it's someone else. He cracks one eye open, then both when he find Thorin Oakenshield staring down at him.

Thorin jumps as if he's been shocked to find Bilbo staring up at him. For a long moment, all they do is look at each other.

"You're awake—"

"I wasn't expecting—"

They both cut off. Bilbo, feeling a little bemused, gestures for Thorin to continue with his good arm. As if to draw comparison, Thorin's eye drifts to Bilbo's wounded arm, bandaged and slung close to his chest. For some reason, Bilbo almost feels like blushing. 

"Your uncle said you were awake," Thorin says, a little more calmly. "I only wished to see it with my own eyes."

"They all went down to dinner," Bilbo says, then blushes for real because of course Thorin must know that—it must be where he spoke to Isengrim. "I mean—I wasn't expecting any visitors, that's why I didn't—"

"I can leave, if you'd prefer to be alone," Thorin says.

"No!" Bilbo nearly bites his tongue. "I mean, I wanted one of the others to get you anyway. Hamfast wouldn't tell me much about what happened."

Thorin's silent for a long time. Bilbo watches his face, but there's little in it that gives away Thorin's thoughts. Dwarves are so frustrating, Bilbo thinks, not for the first time. They may be more excitable than elves, but many of them, such as Thorin, still kept their thoughts under a smooth granite mask. Bilbo wasn't sure he would ever understand them, even if their races did become as close of allies as they hoped for with this treaty.

"I was fighting two orcs," Thorin says and Bilbo straightens. "I heard you shout from behind me, and when I turned, the orc that had been ready to plunge a knife into my back had stabbed your shoulder instead." Then, to Bilbo's astonishment, Thorin bows his head. "You have my thanks."

"No, don't—"

"There is a word for one such as you," Thorin continues as if Bilbo hasn't spoken, his head still bowed. He utters something in Khuzdul. "There is no real translation—perhaps the closest thing would be _oath-keeper_. One who would not only give his fealty to someone, but also his blood and life. There is no higher honor than to be called as such by a dwarf—and no higher honor for any dwarf than to have someone like that at their side."

Bilbo knows he's blushing, can feel the burning in his cheeks and along his ears, but he doesn't know how he could be expected to stop. This is all getting rapidly out of hand, he thinks, a little faint. It wasn't as if he'd even done anything that spectacular! All he'd done was get himself _stabbed_!

"Prince Thorin," he says. Thorin's head lifts and Bilbo can't speak in front of those burning eyes.

"There is no need to address me by title," he says. "Between us, there can be no titles."

Dwarves certainly have a flair for the dramatic.

" _Thorin_ ," Bilbo says, more exasperated than embarrassed now. "I appreciate your words, but I did nothing special."

Thorin stares at him. His eyebrows raise to his hairline.

"You saved my life," he says, emphasizing every word. "Nearly at the cost of your own, and after I have spent the last few days giving you little reason to do so."

"I would've jumped in like that for anyone," Bilbo says. "I don't know about dwarves, but it doesn't matter to me that we don't have the best relationship! I would hardly have let you get stabbed in the back by an _orc_!"

Thorin's brow lowers dangerously. "Hobbits are strange creatures indeed," he says. "To allow themselves to come near death for an enemy."

"You're hardly my enemy!"

"And yet we are not friends or comrades—"

"Thorin!"

Thorin leans back, mouth set in a stubborn line. Bilbo knows that look: he's seen it on dozens of nieces and nephews alike, the mulish set to the jaw that says _I will not budge on this, even if I know that I'm in the wrong_. Bilbo's not entirely sure that Thorin's _wrong_ here—it's not like Bilbo wanted Thorin to just hand-wave Bilbo jumping to his defense or anything—but he still feels wildly uncomfortable with the deferential tone Thorin's adopting. Bilbo _would_ have done it for anyone. If Bifur had been the one under attack, Bilbo would've leapt to his defense as well. And certainly for Hamfast! 

"I appreciate your thanks," Bilbo says, choosing his words carefully. He has a feeling that this is a cultural landmine he doesn't particularly want to step in. "But there's no need for any sort of grand gestures. I saved you because it was the right thing to do."

For some reason, that just makes Thorin's stormy look get _worse_ instead of better. Bilbo frowns at him, uncertain of why Thorin's so upset. Did he expect Bilbo to lord this over him somehow? But it would hardly make him upset if Bilbo refuses to do that. Or perhaps… No. It's too ludicrous to even think.

"I am relieved at your speedy recovery, Master Baggins," Thorin grumbles, hardly sound like it. "But I must speak with my father before the final bell. If there's nothing further you need to speak with me about?"

Bilbo takes in the curl of his shoulders and the tilt of his eyebrows and lets the thought bloom. Perhaps Thorin _wanted_ Bilbo to save him because it was Thorin. Perhaps Thorin came here hoping for Bilbo to say that he'd done it because it was Thorin in danger, that he wouldn't have done anything so foolish and reckless for anyone else. 

That's _ridiculous_. And yet…

"I lied," Bilbo says and watches, incredulous, as Thorin straightens. _Sweet Eru_. "I mean—no, I wouldn't have done it for anyone."

"You wouldn't?"

"I only… I only would've done something like that for someone I cared about," Bilbo stammers. Thorin's eyes are intent on his face and he's finding it hard to think. "My family, for instance. Or for my friends."

Thorin's mouth twitches. "And you would call us friends, Master Baggins?"

Bilbo smiles a little. "I would say I've earned it, Master Oakenshield."

To Bilbo's surprise, Thorin actually _laughs_ , and oh, that's a nice sound—deep, sonorous, rumbling. Bilbo wants to curl up in that laugh and take a nap. He ignores the odd shiver in his body as best he can.

"Yes, that is one thing you've earned, Master Baggins," Thorin agrees.

"Would you please call me Bilbo?"

Thorin blinks. Bilbo thinks he even goes a little red around the ears, but it might be the light playing tricks on him.

"Call you—?"

"I've never liked being called 'Master Baggins' by anyone. And if we're friends…?"

Thorin looks from Bilbo to the bed to his feet and back again, scowling all the while. Bilbo watches, a little amused that Thorin would call him something ridiculous like _oath-keeper_ with no hesitation, but stumble over saying his name. Dwarves really are strange creatures.

"Bilbo," Thorin says, and Bilbo has to ignore another odd shiver at the way Thorin's mouth shapes the letters. 

It's so strange—he's heard his name said by hundreds of different people, of all different kinds of beings, and yet when Thorin says it, Bilbo has to ignore another odd shiver. Perhaps it's his recovering body wrecking havoc on his reactions. Perhaps he's just tired.

"See?" Bilbo asks. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Thorin inclines his head. "I must leave," he says. "But may I come visit again tomorrow?"

"Of course."

Thorin lifts his head. While his face is still reserved, his eyes are mischievous. 

"Also, I've been instructed to inform you that negotiations will continue tomorrow afternoon. Due to your situation, they will of course be relocated here, to maximize your comfort."

Bilbo groans.

* * *

Thorin isn't surprised to find Dís outside of his door when he returns that night. If anything, he would have been more surprised had she been absent. Dís is already dressed for sleep, with her hair down and unbraided, but she hardly looks tired as she unfolds herself from the wall next to Thorin's door.

"You spoke with him?" she asks.

"Yes," Thorin says, opening his door to let the both of them into his room. "And I don't believe he understands what he did."

Dís sighs impatiently. Thorin putters around his chambers, lighting a fire in the hearth to get more warmth. Dís watches from a chair nearby, her legs curled up under her. 

"You think hobbits go about it so differently?" she asks after a long moment.

Thorin gives her question the due consideration. He's been thinking about this all week, though, so it only really takes a little bit of thinking to give her a measured answer.

"Yes, I do," he says. "He has no idea what he did. If I decide not to pursue it, he would never know."

Dís leans back. Her eyes gleam in the firelight, cat-like. 

"But have you decided not to pursue it?" she asks, shrewd as ever.

Thorin doesn't have to think much about it. He's known his answer since the moment he saw Bilbo fall and his heart stopped beating.

"No," he says. "Actually, I intend quite the opposite."

Dís lets out a long breath, somewhere between relief and disbelief. 

"I see," she says. "Have you talked to our father?"

"Not yet," Thorin says. "The events don't start for another four days. You know I can't ask permission before then."

"That's tradition," Dís says. "But it's not enforced, you know. And wouldn't it be better if had a heads up?"

"If I'm really going to do this, I need to follow tradition," Thorin counters. "We've never had something like this happen in Erebor before, you know."

"And definitely not with the heir to the throne," Dís mutters. Thorin gives her a look, but she just shrugs, unrepetanent. "It's _true_. Are you really sure about this?"

"Yes," Thorin says. He pokes at the hearth that blooms with heat, upsetting a log and sending sparks skittering across the floor. "Besides," he adds, a little morose, "he may yet refuse me. Then we won't have to worry about all that."

He doesn't look up when he hears Dís stand or when he feels her gentle touch to his hair. He closes his eyes as she pats at his head, reminded of all the times when they were younger and she would touch him just like this. 

"I don't think you need to worry about that," she says. 

By the time Thorin looks up, she's left. He stays by the hearth for a long time, watching the flames grow and die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [lies down on floor] i really don't like writing fight scenes. 
> 
> all of this cryptic as hell shit will be resolved soon, i promise. as for the 'events' thorin mentioned - that'll have to do with the durin's day celebrations mentioned in chapter one. more next chapter!
> 
> this chapter is pretty short, but the next one should be longer. thank you all for your support!


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